


The Five People You Meet in Heaven

by amarillogrande



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Chuck is God, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Inspired by Novel, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Sexual Content, the five people you meet in heaven - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:58:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2767274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarillogrande/pseuds/amarillogrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heaven is white.</p><p>Well. Isn’t that fucking stereotypical.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Dean isn’t really sure how he got here. Or even why he’s here. And hell, for all the times the Winchesters have died, he thinks he ought to know the drill by now. But what he doesn’t know is when most folks go, they find something different.</p><p>There’s a system God put in place. That when you’re gone (for good) there’s a couple things you gotta do first. There are five people waiting for you.</p><p> </p><p>They are the five people you meet in heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This is a fic set in Heaven, so pretty much all of the characters die at some point. It starts right off with Dean's death, so just a heads up. Kinda has to happen for the plot (sorry.) So yes, everyone dies, but it's not sad. Basically.
> 
>  
> 
> This is an AU of Mitch Albom's novel, which is seriously one of my favorites and if you haven't read it yet, go do that cuz its awesome.
> 
> I do not own any of these ideas or characters. Please don’t sue me.
> 
> -chevrolangels

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heaven is white.

Well. Isn’t that fucking stereotypical.

 

 

 

 

 

Dean blinks a couple times, just to reassure himself that his eyes aren’t deceiving him.

But no. It’s still there.

White. That same unrelenting white.

 

 

He’s vaguely conscious of his back on the floor, some hard bright surface underneath him, but there’s nothing else. Just endless blank space, bare and clean. It almost hurts his eyes to look at it.

He props himself up on his elbows, starting to push himself up.

Still white. Still endless.

 

Dean stands, and turns slowly on the spot, taking it all in.

_No friggin’ way._

 

He presses his hands to his eyes, and takes a deep breath in.

He counts to ten.

 

 

 

Dean exhales, then he looks up.

The first thing that hits him is the _color_.

 

The white is gone now, a vibrant sky of turquoise and yellow in its place. Dean watches in awe, the endless streaks and blocks of color shifting aimlessly above him. Yellow melts away into a softer gold, then bright red. Then red becomes a crisp mint, changing as suddenly as if he had flipped a coin. Then coal black, then a fizzling orange—then a color Dean has no name for.

He hesitates, but then reaches up, as if he could curl his fingers around it, wanting to pull the brightness into his palm and let it crumble beneath his fingertips.

His hand closes around dusty cinnamon, but it quickly melts and blows away.

 

He drops his hand.

 

 

 

He's dead. That so much he knows. He and Sammy had gotten the rest of them out of there—and then Dean ran forward, shoving the kid out of the way, and then—

Nothing. There was nothing.

 

 

The space above his head peels into a sharp jade color, bleeding down around him. Dean drops his eyes back down, just feeling. He flexes his fingers.

 

He feels good. Hell, he feels goddamn fantastic. That kink in his back is gone, the one he couldn’t seem to shake ever since he turned forty—and there’s no ache in his hands, his knees…nothing. He vaguely wonders what he looks like.

And as if the sky wants to oblige him, it immediately turns a bright silver, so sharp and clean that Dean can see himself reflected in it. He peers upward, tracing the familiar lines of his face. He has to be almost thirty years younger.

The silver swirls and pools into a softer blue, fading away. It quickly turns clear, almost like the sea—floating down around him in waves of light. Dean would close his eyes and breathe it in, but he doesn’t want to look away from that beautiful shade of familiar blue.

 

 

 

He doesn’t know how long he wanders.

 

 

 

Dean moves through the colors, as everything pitches to a slight red, then a peach color, slowly melting to brown.

A thick, roiling brown—churning and settling into something more solid.

Dean shivers. He glances over his shoulder, but there’s still nothing.

 

He turns in time to see himself step onto solid wood.

 

 

 

He blinks at his feet, uncomprehending.

 

Then he looks up.

Dark, damp wooden walls, lined with shitty pool tables and dingy dartboards, and even the weathered counter, same as it was the day he saw it last.

 

Roadhouse.

 

 

 

 

 

_Today is Dean’s Birthday_

 

 

“You really shouldn’t be out in the sun, Sammy.”

“Dean, I’m fine. I’m not a child.”

“Still gotta make sure you don’t accidentally kill yourself due to stupidity.”

“Dude, after all the shit we’ve seen—I doubt heatstroke is really the way I’m bound to go out.”

“Yeah, but still—”

“Dean.”

 

Sam stops him, a solid hand on his shoulders.

“It’s been four years, okay? I’m fine. Doctors all said so. Tests are clean.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but can’t help his worried grimace. Sam sees the look, and sighs.

“Seriously. I’m putting my foot down. No cancer talk on your birthday.” His face crinkles with a smile. “Let’s get back to being grumpy old men, alright?”

Dean grumbles a little, but his brother just laughs, and nudges him down the sidewalk.

 

Dean huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t know why Sam wanted to take him to San Francisco, of all places. Bunker is still _home_ home, in his opinion, even if they don’t hunt too much nowadays. That weird-ass condo Sam bought doesn’t count at all _._

But of course Mr. Guilt Trip managed to convince him—after many sappy looks and wistful stories from his college days, weekend trips with Jess….

Well. Dean isn’t that heartless.

 

 

(Dean has forty-five minutes to live. He’s not aware of this fact. He trails after his brother, trying to hide his fatigue.)

 

 

They reach the top of yet another ridiculously steep slope, and Dean has to stop for a minute to catch his breath. He's a year away from 60, for god’s sake. He shouldn’t have to put up with this shit anymore.

“All these fuckin’ hills.” Dean places a hand to his back, massaging at a sore spot. “Good thing I tightened up Baby’s brakes last week.”

Sam snorts.

“Dude, the day that car fails, will be the day the apocalypse _actually_ manages to happen.”

 

 

They walk down a side street, taking refuge from the heat in the back patio of a shady bar.

 

(Twenty-seven minutes left. Dean buys a beer and sips it casually, not caring as it gradually warms with the air around him, uncharacteristic for late January.)

 

They go to the pier. They go to all the nerdy historical sights. They even ride the damn cable cars.

And his brother teases him. And Dean teases back. They joke about things that don’t matter, and things that do, and Dean tries not to think of anything that will put a damper on the day.

 

 

(Eleven more minutes of life.)

 

 

Dean’s laughing at something Sam’s just said, not a care in the world.

 

(Ten minutes.)

 

 

 

It happens so suddenly, so quickly, that it almost seems like a joke.

 

 

 

The air cracks with the sick screech of metal on metal, and they both whip around—but they’re not ready for what they see.

At first glance, it looks like the whole front of the building has caved in—there's wood and concrete everywhere—

And people. People thrown to the ground like broken toys, groaning and covered in dust.

 

Dean’s first instinct is to go for his gun, ready to take out whatever monster caused this—when he remembers.

 

 _You don’t need it man,_ Sam said. _We don’t see that kinda action anymore._

Dean pushes his way forward, cursing his brother in his mind. But as he struggles through the crowd, he grudgingly thinks Sam might be right.

There’s only frightened people, running every which way, screams and groans filling the air. The more cowardly shove past Dean, desperate to escape—but there are a couple brave souls fighting through the confusion and the dust clogging the air, trying to help those trapped in the wreckage. The two Winchesters join them without hesitation.

 

 

(Six minutes to live.)

 

 

“You okay?” Dean asks, pulling her up. The woman nods, her eyes wide. There’s a streak of blood on her cheek—but otherwise, she seems unhurt.

“Okay, go, go—“

 

He presses a hand to his chest, coughing concrete dust from his lungs. Sam is stumbling towards him.

“Dean,” he calls. “I think there’s something—“

“What?” Dean shouts, yelling over the noise of a flaring siren.

 

“I think there’s—“

Sam ducks a broken beam, panting.

“There’s—something—here—“

 

Dean whirls, but it’s too late. It hits them and they’re both thrown back, crashing into a pile of rubble.

He only gets a glimpse of black eyes before it seizes his head and smashes it against the concrete.

 

Stars explode in front of his eyes. He crumples, gasping for breath.

 

The thing wrenches him up, its hand like a vise on his throat.

“Winchesters,” it purrs, breath meaty and hot. “Must be my lucky day.”

 

Dean chokes, the world going black.

 

 

Sam comes out of nowhere, ripping the demon off him. Air surges back into Dean's lungs, and he immediately rolls over, shoving himself up, even though his body screams in protest.

The demon crashes back against the wall, collapsing into a motionless heap. Sam falls back to Dean’s side, breathing hard.

They both watch in tense silence as it starts to stand, fixing them with maniacal smile.

The demon cracks its neck.

“Someone’s been taking their vitamins."

 

Dean's hand moves slowly to his belt. 

 

Luckily his brother had no such qualms about bringing Ruby’s knife. Dean pulls it now, the familiar thrill of the hunt rushing back.

“End of the line, pal,” he sneers.

The demon snarls back at him, black eyes mad with rage.

 

 

(Two minutes.)

 

 

The walls groan dangerously, and Dean darts a glance up to the weakening roof above him.

Shit. Demon must’ve been smashing up the place for fun—but looks like it got a little too carried away.

 

They need to get out of here.

 

 

 

Dean looks back into those fathomless eyes.

“We both know how this ends,” he says, his voice dropping down low. “Best come quietly.”

The demon leers, a dribble of blood spilling over his lips.

“Bite me.”

 

Dean smiles.

 

 

 

He bends his knees, ready to spring—

When Sam’s voice sounds behind him, halting Dean in his tracks. The familiar words of the exorcism echo around the unstable walls, and the demon freezes, its smile vanishing.

Dean shoots him a look, but Sam is completely focused on the demon. It growls furiously, thrashing and twitching in its meatsuit.

 

Something in the ceiling snaps, another shudder wracking through the building. Dean’s heartbeat spikes.

_Come on, come on_

The man spasms, the thing inside desperately trying to hang on.

“Te rogamus, audi nos!”

With a roar, the demon smokes out, disappearing into the dust-clogged air.

 

The man goes limp, and they both immediately rush forward. They grab him by the elbows, pulling him towards the exit.

 

Dean breathes hard, his blood pounding.

“I had him, Sam,” he snaps. “I’m not fuckin' useless—“

“We can’t hunt the way we used to, Dean,” Sam shoots back. “I was saving your ass.”

They duck under a half-collapsed doorway, spilling out onto the street. Sam struggles with the man's heavy weight, panting out his words.

“You can be pissed at me later."

 

Dean mutters a few choice curses under his breath, but they manage to get the dude outside, hauling him out of the building and out of danger. He quickly gets snatched up by the paramedics, and they collapse against a parked car, panting.

 

“I think that’s everybody,” Sam says breathlessly, pressing a hand to his ribs. Dean shoots him a look. Jesus, Sammy said he was okay, but his lungs—

Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. No. He should listen to his damn brother.

He leans back, wiping the sweat from his face. And out of habit, he glances back at the ruined building.

 

 

 

He thinks his heart stops in his chest.

 

 

 

 

Underneath a lip of splintered wood, he hadn’t seen her before—

A girl who can’t be more than ten. She’s crying.

 

And above her, a steel beam, teetering dangerously.

 

 

 

 

Dean doesn’t think.

 

 

He bolts forward, running for her. He can hear Sam yelling behind him, but Dean shuts it out. The damage isn’t that bad—there's time, he can save her—

He ducks under a broken rail, kicking through scattered rubble, calling for her.

“Hey, hey—”

He clambers over glass and the ruins of a door, throwing out a hand.

“Come on!”

Those wide blue eyes find his, but she’s frozen—paralyzed by fear.

 

 

(Thirty seconds.)

 

 

Dean panics.

 

“Come on, come on—“

He’s close, she’s so close—

 _“Come on!”_ he yells.

Just a few more feet—

 

 

A crack—and the beam starts to fall.

 

Dean moves faster than he thinks he ever has in his life.

 

His hands find something solid, and he shoves it out of the way.

There’s a sick whistling sound, a scream of terror—and then—

 

 

 

 

_"Dean!”_

 

 

Dean takes a shallow breath, choking on the air. He’s vaguely conscious of his back on the floor, something hot and wet seeping out beneath him.

 

_Oh god, no, no—_

Sam’s rough and warm embrace, surrounding him, holding him tight.

_Dean, no, hey, hey, come on—_

 

His brother is shouting—why is he shouting?

 

 

There are other voices, panicked and wild in the chaos, but they all fade away.

Dean feels something hard and black inside him, a sort of white radiating pain sinking deep into his core. It sits red hot in his gut, then quietly fades away to nothing.

 

He doesn’t feel anything anymore.

 

 

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean mumbles. “It’s okay.”

 

Then there are hands, soft and warm in his.

Dean smiles.

_It’s okay._

 

The last thing he feels is those hands, pulling him forward.

 

 

 

x

 

**“People think of heaven as a paradise garden, a place where they can float on clouds and laze in rivers and mountains. But scenery without solace is meaningless. This is the greatest gift God can give you: To understand what happened in your life. To have it explained. It is the peace you have been searching for.** **”**

 

x

 

 

Dean takes a few cautious steps forward.

 

This is his Heaven? The fuckin’ Roadhouse?

Not that this isn’t great—hell, he’ll be glad to relax in a familiar place for once—but what about his family? Mom? Sam? And Cas—

Dean swallows, screwing his eyes shut.

 

Then he realizes, and he almost wants to laugh.

Of course. This isn’t his Heaven. There's no way this can be real.

He's back in Hell.

 

Dean isn't surprised. After all the crap he’s done, why would Heaven let him in? And god—it’s the perfect torture. Give him some familiar place, some small glimmer of hope—then just when he starts to believe it’s real—they'll cruelly tear it away. Dean almost expects the place to burn down any minute, his old nightmare—for the demons and the screams to come ripping through the flaming walls, and drag him down.

 

 

 

But it doesn’t.

 

 

 

 

He reaches out, tentatively placing a hand against one of the supporting posts. He runs his fingers up and down the thick wood, and despite himself, he smiles.

It feels real. Hell—even smells right.

 

There’s a shuffle and a noise from the bar, and Dean whirls, hand immediately going for his gun.

But his fingers close down on nothing but air.

 

Dean curses, patting himself down. Even in Heaven, he doesn’t have his fuckin’ gun. He’s defenseless.

 

 

“Porter, Stout…”

Dean freezes, his mouth falling open.

She frowns, peering at the taps behind the bar.

“Even got some of that fancy imported stuff, ‘cause the boys complained one time,” she says, wiping down a glass with her rag. “Ungrateful little bastards.”

 

He walks forward, unsure if he’s dreaming.

 

“Ellen?”

She smiles.

 

“What’ll you have, Dean?”

 

x

 

He just gapes at her. Ellen doesn’t seem fazed, turning to wipe down the counter.

“Bit of a shock, I know.”

When Dean still doesn't answer, she chuckles, scrubbing at an invisible speck of dirt.

“You sure you’re not one of the mute ones?”

 

“M—“

He swallows.

“Mute ones?” he manages to croak out.

She laughs.

“Guess not.”

 

Ellen slings the rag over her shoulder.

“The more difficult ones get the silent treatment,” she says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “S‘cause they don’t know how to listen.”

She leans a hand against the bar, an amused grin on her face.

“But never really figured you for one of those, Dean Winchester. Even though sometimes you boys’re dumber than a bag of hammers.”

 

Dean stares. He realizes his mouth is open, and quickly closes it.

Ellen grins.

“So, Dean.” She claps her hands together. “What’ll ya have?”

 

“Uh.”

He swallows, eyeing her warily.

“Surprise me. I guess.”

He’s not ready to let down his guard just yet.

But Ellen just smiles.

“You got it.”

 

She turns, busying herself with the glass. Dean cautiously sits down on one of the stools, glancing around.

 

“So.”

 

 

She glances at him. He shrugs.

“It’s a bar.”

Ellen snorts, pulling back the handle.

“You think it’d be Heaven without beer?”

She fills the glass and tops it off perfectly, sliding it to him.

“On the house,” she says, giving him a wink.

 

Dean automatically wraps his hands around the glass, but he feels numb.

“Heaven,” he repeats. “Right.”

 

Heaven. The last time he was up here had been anything but calm. More like frantic and terrifying, running blind with Sam, pursued by angels every step of the way. No freaky colors, no Ellen, and definitely no calm chitchat over drinks. So yeah, he’s a little confused.

 

Ellen smiles, puttering behind the bar. And suddenly, Dean feels cold.

“Well. Um.”

 

He laughs, empty and hollow.

“Thanks, and all, but c’mon.” He gestures. “Let’s go.”

 

Ellen frowns.

“What?”

 

He stands, shrugging.

“Y’know. With the resurrection.”

Dean looks up, expecting some winged dick to swoop in at any moment.

“Let’s go!” He shouts to the ceiling.

 

 

Nothing happens.

 

 

 

He throws Ellen a sharp look, but she doesn’t say anything.

Something in Dean’s gut twists.

 

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “But that’s not how it works.”

He slowly turns to face her.

“Been dead a couple times before.”

He gestures towards himself, grimacing.

“Angels fix you up, you’re good to go.”

“Dean.”

“Sam’ll probably be missing me,” he says quickly. “He’ll be worried, and he’ll probably do something stupid, and I—“

“Dean.”

He stops, eyes fixed on the glass in front of him.

There’s a burning in his throat, and something pricking in the corner of his eyes.

 

“You’re done,” Ellen says softly. “You can rest now.”

 

 

“I’m—“

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

“I’m dead,” he whispers.

 

 

 

Ellen looks down. Then, she nods.

Dean digs his nails into his palm.

“For good?”

 

“Yes,” she says gently. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

 

 

 

She comes around the edge of the bar, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He doesn’t remember sitting down.

“It’s okay,” she says, moving a soothing hand over his back.

Dean stares unblinkingly at the floor.

 

“I—“

He closes his eyes.

“I wanna see Mom,” he whispers. The hand on his back pauses.

 

 

 

“I know.”

 

Ellen moves away, the pain clear on her face.

“I’m a poor substitute, kiddo. I know that.”

 

Dean bites down on his tongue, a sudden rush of shame hot and thick in his blood.

“I—sorry—“

He wants to apologize, but the words die in his throat. She smiles sadly.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “I get it.”

She looks away.

“But I don’t know if she’s on your list.”

 

Dean frowns.

“List?”

 

Ellen straightens suddenly, and he holds his breath. This—Dean knows—this is it. Whatever she’s here for. He’s about to find out.

 

 

“There are five people you meet in Heaven,” she says.

 

 

x

 

Dean blinks.

“What?”

 

“Five people,” Ellen says again. “Sorta initiation process.”

She sees the look on his face, and snorts, crossing her arms.

“Don’t worry. It confused the hell outta me, too.”

Dean struggles to understand.

“But—who? Who are my five?”

 

Ellen just shakes her head.

“Sorry. Like I said, don’t know. Just that I was one of yours.”

Dean growls, his frustration getting the better of him.

“Why?” He snaps.

 

Ellen quiets, looking down.

 

 

 

That rush of shame overwhelms him again, and Dean covers his face with his hands, trying to breathe.

Why does he keep lashing out?

 

“Sorry,” he whispers.

 

Ellen’s voice is soft.

“It’s hard to accept at first,” she murmurs. “I get it.”

 

 

They’re silent for a moment. Somewhere, a clock is ticking.

 

 

 

“This is the first step for you,” she continues tentatively, as if she’s ready for him to explode again. “My second.”

 

Dean runs a hand over his face, trying to process it all.

“So.”

He breathes. In. Out.

 

“I’ll…get a Roadhouse of my own?”

Ellen nods.

“Yep. A little slice of paradise, carved out for each of us.”

 

She sits in the seat opposite him, leaning back.

“Never thought I’d say it, but it’s nice.” She laughs, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Ash, uh—Ash told us about your last cloud hopping experience—once he found us.” She shakes her head. “The things that boy can do, I swear."

She glances down, then looks up, raising an eyebrow.

“That beer ain’t gonna drink itself.”

 

 

 

Dean swallows guiltily and tugs it towards him. He takes a large gulp, trying to calm his nerves.

And damn, it is good.

Hell, it might be the best drink he’s ever had.

 

“Anyway."

Ellen smiles slightly.

"Ash may be a genius, but he didn’t realize you don’t need fancy sigils to cross heavens.”

Dean looks up, frowning. She shrugs, nodding towards something behind him. Dean turns to see a soft orange light, pooling from the window of a weathered door.

“Got a little corner I can pop into when I want to see Jo,” she says, smiling wistfully.

Dean clenches his jaw, dragging his eyes away. He can barely handle seeing Ellen right now. He can’t even start to think about seeing Jo.

 

“All heavens overlap. If you want them to,” Ellen says, after a moment. “Anyone we’ve met throughout the years. The more important, the bigger the overlap.” She props her chin on her hand, looking at the door. “Jo had a life outside me, so she doesn’t have to hang out with her mother for all eternity.” She purses her lips. “I’m sure she’s grateful for that.”

Dean swallows.

“Right,” he manages to say.

 

Ellen lays a hand on his arm.

“Usually you share with a soulmate."

Dean ducks his head. Ellen smiles wryly.

“Enjoy not having a roommate, while you can, kid.”

 

She smiles fondly at him, and Dean feels that burning again, knowing that it’s an affection he doesn’t deserve.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to give himself some time to think.

 

“So you…”

She dips her head, answering his unfinished question.

“Anyone I want to see, I can.”

Then she gives him a sharp look, a warning note in her voice.

“But only after I met my five.”

 

Dean realizes belatedly that he’s nodding. Then he remembers he doesn’t believe in any of this bullshit.

But hey, he’ll play along. If it means he’ll get to see his family again.

 

 

 

“Why five people?” He decides to ask first. “What does that do?”

“Freedom,” Ellen says. “Paradise without understanding is meaningless. God is offering the chance for you to make sense of your life.”

When she smiles, fine spiderweb lines crinkle the corners of her eyes. And for the first time, Dean realizes how young she really was.

“Hell, you know me. Never was really one for the God stuff," she says. "Didn’t believe in angels until there was one sittin’ in front of me." She leans her elbows on the table. “But it’s good. It works. It helped me, and it’ll help you, Dean. To understand why you mattered.”

“But I don’t,” Dean responds automatically.

 

 

When she doesn’t say anything, he glances up.

Ellen is staring at him, her expression something he can’t quite describe.

“Damn it, Dean,” she snaps.

 

Before Dean can react, she suddenly stands, grabbing his empty glass. She stalks back behind the bar as he watches, bewildered.

Ellen angrily jabs the glass under the tap and refills it, not looking at him.

“You had me really worried, kid,” she mutters.

“What?”

“We’re not blind up here, Dean,” she says, the frustration clear in her voice. “I kept an eye on you.”

She slides him his full glass, and it hisses to a halt in front of him, beer slopping messily over the edge.

Ellen turns on him, and Dean wishes he could suddenly vanish.

 

“I know you had a hard road, but Jesus—sometimes I thought you were going to end it before your time.”

Dean swallows. Ellen looks like she’s barely keeping her temper.

“Tried to get you to talk someone, but god knows that didn’t work too well," she snaps. 

She yanks down a tumbler and pours herself a shot of whiskey. She knocks in back in one go, squinting a little as it stings her throat.

Dean stares at her.

“That—that really was you. The psychic.”

 

Ellen slams the glass down, focusing that laser-like stare on him.

“Luckily your brother and that angel smacked some sense into you," she mutters.

 

Dean’s throat is dry. There’s a sour taste in his mouth, the reality of everything finally catching up to him.

“Why do you care?”

 

Ellen shouldn’t give a rat’s ass about him. She should hate him. He dragged her into that whole messy business. He got her killed—and Jo too.

She should hate him for that. He deserves it.

Ellen takes quiet steps towards him, her eyes narrowed.

“You think I’d stop carin’ about you just ‘cause I was dead?” She asks, her voice deadly quiet.

“No, I think you stopped caring when I got you killed,” Dean snaps.

 

All at once, Ellen's anger melts, and her face softens.

“Dean.”

“No,” he growls. “We’re not doing this.”

 

 

 

He turns away from her, and stops abruptly.

There’s no exit. The door from before has vanished. Dean’s breath catches in his lungs, and the wood seems to press in around him, stiff and suffocating.

The windows are still there, bright and shining, and he crosses over to one, furiously trying to yank it open.

“Don’t let the door smack ya on the way out,” Ellen mutters.

Dean whips around, glaring at her.

 

“Let me out.”

“No.”

“Fuck you,” he spits. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“Dean, dammit—I am not angry at you.”

 

 

Dean stares at her.

 

She sighs, shaking her head.

“Don’t tell me you’re still blaming yourself for something you had no control over.”

“But you _died_ ,” Dean blurts. “That’s on me.”

 

Ellen advances on him, her voice rising.

“Dean—in what universe is that your fault? Are you that screwed in the head?”

“No, I—“

“Where does fault start? Where does blame end?”

 

She walks right up to him, jabbing a finger at his chest.

“I didn’t have to stay there. I didn’t have to stay behind, to volunteer to die with my daughter.”

Dean shuts his eyes, trying not to remember the echoing barks of those hellhounds, Meg’s smug smile and Jo’s sad one, the last thing she said—

“So am I to blame?” Ellen asks viciously. “Is it my fault?”

Dean shakes his head.

“No, of course not—“

“What about Lucifer? What about God? Is it theirs?”

Dean snarls, flaring with a sudden hatred for the both of them.

“Maybe, but—“

“If I was lookin’ for someone to blame, you’d never cross my mind,” Ellen says firmly.

She sounds like something Dean might have heard if he grew up with a mother himself.

 

She speaks slowly, quiet but determined.

“We knew what we were gettin’ into. We knew what the risks were.”

Dean digs his nails into his palms.

“But you died for nothing,” he whispers.

 

Ellen suddenly pauses, a sort of pitying softness melting her gaze.

“That’s really what you think?” 

 

Dean swallows.

He can’t answer.

She sighs, then reaches out, gently taking his hands.

 

 

“It was something I was proud to give up,” she murmurs.

All around them, sunlight dances, orange and dusty. It almost feels like home.

“For my daughter. For you, for the world.”

Ellen sits him down again, but Dean feels numb.

 

“Sacrifices…are part of life, Dean.”

 

x

 

“Everyone makes them,” she says softly. “We all gave up something when we became hunters.” Her grip tightens. “Your sacrifices’ve been bigger than anyone else’s, God knows—but you have to understand.”

Dean is trying to breathe, but it’s like his lungs don’t work. He wishes his ears were just as dysfunctional—wishes that he didn’t have to hear this.

“Everything you gave up, everything that was taken from you—it made a difference,” Ellen murmurs, laying a hesitant hand on his head. Something in Dean, so starved for touch, instantly turns to that small comfort.

“You have no idea how many lives you affected.”

She strokes gently through his hair.

“I’m not saying it was fair, or that you deserved any of it,” she whispers. Dean closes his eyes, selfishly wanting to believe her.

 

“But you never really lose something,” Ellen says. “You just give it to someone else.”

 

 

 

Dean takes a deep breath, hating himself. He can’t let this go on any longer.

 

“No, Ellen,” he says quietly.

 

He gently pushes her away.

“You can spin that crap all you want, but we both know it’s not true.”

She opens her mouth, but Dean raises a hand, needing to make her understand.

“I’m not worth this. I’m not worth any of this. And you, just forgiving me like that, it doesn’t make sense, and I—“

 

Dean cuts off, his heart choking his throat.

“It can’t,” he whispers. “It just can’t.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Stand up.”

 

 

 

He looks up, confused.

“What?”

“You heard me,” she says sharply. “Stand up, boy.”

Something in Dean makes him obey, and he bolts upright before he even realizes it. Maybe it’s his military training, or maybe it’s the tone in Ellen’s voice, the one that tells him he’d really regret disobeying her.

 

 

“Now I’ve tried to be nice.”

She circles around him, her eyes narrowed.

“I’ve tried to be gentle. Because, hell, you just died, and don’t we all deserve some coddlin’ after that.”

Ellen plants her hands on her hips, staring him down.

“But Dean Winchester, if you can’t get it through your thick skull that my death wasn’t your fault, I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you.”

There’s such a fire in her eyes that cows Dean, and he can’t even say anything in response.

He stares at her. She glares back.

 

 

Ellen stands stock-still, completely unforgiving. She looks so goddamn ferocious that Dean feels the weirdest thing—the urge to laugh.

 

He bites his lip, and she scowls.

“Stop that.”

Dean shakes his head, but it’s right there, threatening to force its way out.

The corner of Ellen’s mouth twitches.

 

 

Then before they know it, they’re both bent over double, laughing like idiots in the dark air of the bar. Dean presses a hand to his side, fighting for breath.

Ellen manages to recover and straightens, wiping her eyes.

“Oh, you goddamn bastard.”

Dean coughs, giving her a sheepish smile.

“Sorry.”

 

She shakes her head, smiling at him fondly.

 

 

So when she holds out her hands again, this time he doesn’t hesitate.

 

Ellen wraps an arm around his shoulder. She squeezes it gently.

“You still got four others to meet,” she whispers into his ear.

Dean closes his eyes.

“But let’s start with me.”

 

x

 

 

“Come on. Say the magic words.”

He tightens the grip on her hand.

 

“Ellen…I…”

“Dean,” she warns.

 

 

 

 

 

He looks up into those warm brown eyes. She waits patiently, not blinking.

She’s not going to give him a pass on this one.

 

 

“It wasn’t my fault,” he whispers.

 

 

Ellen smiles softly.

“There we go.”

 

 

 

The windows glow with a sudden light, so bright the brown wood around them shines like gold.

Dean takes a step back.

“Ellen—what—“

But she just smiles.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she says. “I’ll see you soon.”

 

Dean shields his eyes, trying to find her in the blinding light, but she’s so far away, he won’t reach her in time—

“No, wait—“

“Remember what I said, Dean.”

“The girl!” He yells. “There was a girl, did I—“

The room is shaking, and Dean makes a desperate grab for her hands—but Ellen feels like the wind in his grasp, impossible to hold.

 

The walls shudder, a high-pitched whine screaming through him. He falls to his knees, hands clamped over his ears.

 

 

 

A military plane streaks through the air—cutting the night with a bright orange flare, then spiraling off and crashing—the distant sound of the explosion shattering the dark night.

Dean falls back, gasping.

 

Fire roars, huge and red behind him, and he runs.

Here it is—Hell’s finest—they’ve finally found him and dragged him below, and now they're after him—

He runs and runs—past warped and ruined buildings, rusted out cars—a dirty chainlink fence—

It looms up in his path and Dean clears it before his brain can catch up with his body, everything in him working on instinct.

 

He hurls over the fence and crashes hard to the ground. His fingers curl into the weeds, his ears and eyes sparking with the bright bursts of fire.

Explosions of yellow and white, red and brilliant orange, burning his skin and tearing at his soul. The colors are supposed to be safe, right? They're supposed to be _good_ —supposed to be his peace—

But in these colors he finds only terror.

 

 

Another flash of fire streaks across the sky, and the thing in front of him lights up, illuminated briefly—

No.

Dean drops to his knees, staring in horror.

The Impala, rusted out and abandoned, like he had seen her once. In a place he’d hoped he’d never see again.

“Baby, no,” he breathes.

 

Then he hears the snap of a twig behind him. He freezes.

 

The sound comes again. Dean flits over the wilted grass, searching. His hand falls on a jagged shard of metal and he seizes it, pulling it close. He might be dead, but this place scares the shit out of him. He isn’t gonna go through it defenseless.

 

 

He sits motionless, waiting.

Another flare of yellow light cuts through the night, and Dean doesn’t think.

 

He throws himself at the shadow, and they both tumble to the ground, shoving against each other. Dean rolls him over and pins him, jamming his makeshift weapon against the figure’s neck. It immediately sputters and squirms, trying to inch away from the dangerous sharp edge.

“Wait—“ He gasps. “Dean—“

“What!” Dean shouts. “What do you want?”

 

A cloud shifts, and the strange orange moonlight illuminates his face.

Dean’s grip loosens in shock.

 

 

 

“Chuck?”


	2. Chapter 2

**“At one point, he asked his wife if God knew he was here. She smiled and said, “Of course,” even when Eddie admitted that some of his life he’d spent hiding from God, and the rest of the time he thought he went unnoticed.”**

 

x

 

Another round of bullets shatter the night, and he’s shocked into moving.

Dean seizes Chuck’s arm, roughly pulling him up.

“We need to get inside—“

 

Dean yanks him forward, and they run to the nearest building they see, one of the many worn out and burned cabins littering the broken earth. They stumble through the door, right as a fiery explosion lights up the air.

Dean steps over broken glass, a couple empty bottles, and pushes aside a ripped up couch, backing against the wall. He pulls the ragged curtain back and looks out at the chaos outside, his heart pounding.

_Why? Why here?_

 

Dean manages to calm down, then he turns, about to ask Chuck what the hell is going on—but the words die in his throat. Lying abandoned on the floor, by Chuck’s feet, is a broken bead curtain.

Dean stares, his throat choked.

 

Just when he deluded himself into thinking he was safe, the worst place possible has managed to find him—that horrible world where Cas only smiled at him through smoke-stained lips.

 

Chuck is teetering on the doorway. He hasn’t said anything. His foot shifts nervously and hits the beads, sending them rattling. It sets Dean’s teeth on edge.

 

 

“Heard you were dead,” he says shortly. “Sorry.”

But Chuck just shrugs.

“Used to it by now.”

 

Outside, the sounds of fighting have stopped, but the faint flickers of the fire still creep in through the windows, lighting up Chuck’s face with an unearthly glow.

Dean nods grimly, looking around again. He doesn’t loosen the grip on his makeshift knife.

“We gotta find a way to get out of here.”

He debates whether to make a break for it, to risk the open air.

“Ellen’ll take us in," he mutters. "Right—we’ll go to her, if we can just get back—“

“You can’t go back, Dean,” Chuck says. “Only forward.”

 

 

 

 

Dean slowly turns his head.

 

  

“It’s Heaven,” Chuck murmurs. “You’re not supposed to get out.”

 

 

“Heaven.”

 

 

 

 

Dean spits the word like a curse.

 

“This—this is your Heaven?”

A laugh forces its way up his throat, but it burns, tasting like acid in his mouth.

“This is my goddamn nightmare,” he breathes, memories clogging his chest.

 

Chuck tilts his head.

“What are you seeing?” He asks enigmatically.

“Dude, what are you _not_ seeing?”

 

Dean brandishes the knife at him, stabbing the air.

“You’re seriously spending eternity in this hellhole?” He asks, his voice incredulous. “Lucifer and Croats running around—making the planet their bitch? _That’s_ your Heaven?”

“Oh,” Chuck says. “That’s the one you see.”

 

 

Dean stares at him.

 

 

 

Chuck sighs.

“Makes sense. This is how you knew me.”

He looks around at the dirty cabin.

“You’d see the Heaven Chuck would want.”

 

 

Dean takes a slow step back. All of his instincts are telling him to run.

 

“Okay…seriously.”

 

He tries to laugh.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

 

He looks at Chuck, but he's completely silent. Dean starts to sweat.

“This isn’t some freaky prophet thing, is it?”

 

Chuck just shakes his head. Dean tries to breathe evenly.

“Dude—with all this cryptic shit…you’re acting like a friggin’ angel.”

 

The man in front of him is quiet, refusing to meet his eyes.

 

“Whoa, whoa, wait—”

 

Dean holds up a hand.

“You’re—you’re not an angel—are you?”

 

Fuck. At this point, that would make a hell of a lot more sense than whatever’s going on now.

 

Chuck crosses his arms, inclining his head.

“Aim a little higher,” he says softly.

Dean snorts.

“What, like God?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“G—“

 

Dean stares at him.

 

“You’re God?” He whispers.

 

 

 

 

Chuck doesn’t say anything.

 

 

 

Dean pales.

 

 

 

 

  

 

“Holy shit.”

 

 

 

 

 

_Today Is Dean’s Birthday_

 

“You know how you get presents on your birthday?”

 

Dean doesn’t look up. He makes another _whoosh_ sound, completely focused on sending the red car zooming across the carpet.

“And…”

She sits heavily down next to him, placing a hand on his head.

“It’s your birthday today.”

Dean smiles widely.

“Uh-huh.”

He continues to send the imaginary citizens on their daily lives, going as fast as his little fingers can push them. She watches, stroking a hand through his hair.

“Well…I have a present for you.”

 

Dean abandons his cars and quickly turns to his mother, his face lit up with anticipation.

“What is it?”

She smiles, leaning forward.

“It’s right here,” she murmurs, patting her stomach. Dean frowns, reaching out. He places it on the slight swell of her dress.

“In your tummy?” He asks, looking up with those wide eyes.

She nods, covering his hand.

“Yeah.”

She moves his hand slightly, so Dean can feel where the baby’s been shifting all morning. He’s quiet now, but maybe he’ll perk up for his brother.

Mary smiles.

“A little brother. Just for you.”

Dean fidgets a little, squinting at her.

“A brother?”

“Yeah,” she says gently. “Would you like that?”

He kicks, strong this time, and Dean’s eyes widen, his tiny face filled with wonder.

“Whas’ his—what’s his name?”

“Well…”

Mary smiles, tousling his hair.

“You know how you’re named for Grandma?”

Dean nods.

“Well, me and your Dad were thinking…that this little one will be named for Grandpa.”

Dean smoothes his hands over her stomach, and she points.

“Sam.”

Dean repeats.

“Sam.”

Mary laughs, nodding.

“Our little Sammy.”

 

Dean reaches for her, and she sweeps him up, hugging him close.

“Like it,” Dean says, tangling his fingers in her hair. “Like it a lot. Sam. Sammy.”

Mary chuckles.

“I’m glad.”

 

She dips him quickly, and Dean shrieks happily, giggling. Mary pokes him in the chest, smiling wide.

“And what does my big man want for his birthday breakfast, huh?”

Dean wiggles in her arms, shouting.

“Hug!”

“Ohhh, yes of course,” Mary coos. “You love hugs, don’t you?”

Dean nods, squirming so he can wrap his arms around her neck. She obliges him, hiking him up.

“I think we can do that.”

 

She carries him downstairs, whispering conspiratorially all the way.

“We can go to the park, and then we’ll play with—“

“Legos!”

“Yes, honey—I didn’t forget about the Legos—and by then Daddy will be home, and we can eat the pie you helped me make.”

“Pie!”

“Mhm. And blow out candles.”

Mary raises her eyebrows, tickling him a little.

“And how many candles do you get?”

Dean frowns, counting briefly on his fingers.

“F…four. Four!” He says triumphantly, holding them out for her to see.

Mary grips his tiny hand.

“That’s right! You’re four years old,” she says, smiling. “And getting so big already. Oof.”

 

She adjusts him a little on her hip, trying to avoid the slight swell of her stomach. A couple years from now, and she won’t be able to lift him like this anymore.

She sets Dean down on the counter, and he helps her make breakfast, even though he ends up knocking over the blueberries and sending them sprawling. They make funny shapes with the pancake batter and flick little globs of whipped cream at each other, Dean giggling happily, syrupy-sticky fingers holding her own.

 

Mary smiles.

 

“Happy Birthday, Dean.”

 

x

 

 

 

“Go ahead,” Chuck whispers.

 

 

 

Dean doesn’t remember moving forward. All he knows is that suddenly he’s halfway across the cabin and launching himself at Chuck, and they tumble heavily to the ground.

They hit the floor and pass through the wall like mist, spilling out onto a flat scrubbed wasteland—the lone cabin the only thing for miles.

Dean’s vision is hazed over red—he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this much rage in his life.

 

“You—“

He hits him, over and over, but Chuck does not bleed.

“You goddamn _bastard—“_

Dean yells, his throat ripped raw from screaming.

He aims another punch for his head, but this time, Chuck catches his wrist, his eyes sad.

“Dean.”

 

Dean falls to his knees, crumpling under his grip. His whole arm feels numb.

“I’m sorry,” Chuck says softly.

 

Dean yanks his hand away.

His knuckles are stinging, cut open, blood dripping freely.

 

“So.”

 

 

 

 

 

His rage settles, centering into a white-hot point beating a tattoo against his ribs.

 

He laughs bitterly.

“You’re the jackass in charge of all this crap.”

 

Chuck nods slowly. Dean pushes himself up, glaring.

 

Shit. He always told himself that if he ever met God, the first thing he’d do would be to knock his teeth out. Unfortunately, Chuck’s mouth looks completely intact.

And the couple hits Dean managed to get in hadn’t fixed anything. He feels no satisfaction. He just wants to get the hell out of here.

 

Dean looks him up and down, his lip curling.

“Death said he’d reap you,” he snarls. “So what? You dead too?”

“No,” Chuck says. “Sorry,” he adds quickly, seeing Dean’s furious expression. “Kinda hijacked my own system.”

His eyes dart about, in that nervous way Dean had attributed to not enough sleep and a healthy dose of whiskey—but now he sees the menace behind it.

Always watching, always watching.

  
“I needed to talk to you,” Chuck says carefully. “Sam too, when he comes.”

 

A pang of longing cuts through his anger at the mention of his brother—and Dean is quiet for a moment, struggling to breathe. But that little half-apologetic smile on Chuck’s face really makes him want to smash things. Mostly smash things.

“That better not be for a hell of a long time,” he growls. Chuck quickly raises his hands.

“No,” he says. “No.”

 

 

Dean turns his back, trying to give himself some time to think. He stares at the ruined red dust of the land around them, his mind reeling.

Chuck— _Chuck_ —the bumbling, inept prophet, cursed with visions of their lives that had got dropped into their story—

He had been God? Masquerading as a human the whole time?

 

He glances over his shoulder. Chuck is watching him intently, absolutely still.

Dean clenches his jaw.

 

“Have to say."

 

He gestures at the sky above them, now a bloody purple.

“Not loving the little setup you got goin’ here,” he sneers.

Chuck’s face darkens.

“Not many do.”

He looks around too, his hands in his pockets.

“Used to just let people walk right in, same as the minute they died,” he says, almost conversationally. “And you would not believe the pretention and the _entitlement._ ” Chuck blows out a breath, staring up at the sky. “I mean—Paul was always a kissass little shit, but in death…”

He snorts.

“Jesus _._ ”

 

 

 

Dean stares at him, his fists clenched. He’s seriously considering hitting him again.

Chuck sees the murderous look on Dean's face and sobers, quickly raising his hands.

“Dean. Look. I know you have questions—“

“Who am I meeting?” Dean whispers.

 

Chuck cuts off, frowning.

 

“I…I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.”

“Bullshit.”

 

Dean steps closer, hissing in his face.

 

“Who am I meeting?” He asks again.

 

 

Chuck hold his gaze, brash and unapologetic.

“I’m sorry. You have to do this for yourself.”

 

Dean glares, fuming.

No. _No._ Not this crap again. God isn’t going to turn up just to drop some mysterious shit on him and then disappear. Not if Dean has anything to say about it.

 

“Why are you here?” He snarls.

 

 

Chuck seems confused.

“What?”

“Why are you here?” Dean snaps again, his hatred pulsing thick in his blood. “You were perfectly content to just sit back and watch everything else.”

 

Chuck runs a hand through his hair, opening his mouth—

But Dean cuts him off, screaming in his face.

“You checked out!” He shouts. “For _everything_ —the apocalypse, Leviathan, the fucking angels going goddamn insane—“

He stops to draw a breath, his hands shaking.

“And you’re here now? _Now?_ For my shitty little death?” He yells.

 

_“Why?”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The air buzzes in between them, taut and humming with brown heat.

 

 

 

 

“I doubt you’ll believe it,” Chuck mutters.

“Try me,” Dean snaps.

 

 

 

It’s completely silent. Even the wooden cabin behind them seems to be holding its breath.

 

 

 

“I’m here to say I’m sorry.”

 

x

 

 

“Come again?” Dean breathes.

“I’m sorry,” Chuck says, completely serious. “For everything I ever put you through.”

 

 

 

 _“Don’t_ —“

 

 

Dean's hands are shaking, he takes jerky steps forward, his blood pounding in his ears. He wants to rip Chuck apart, he wants to seize his head and bash it against the floor, he just—

“Don’t _do_ that—don’t stand there and just _apologize_ , don’t—“

“Dean—”

“You ruined my life!” Dean yells. “ _Ruined_ it!”

 

His heart is choked, his eyes unfocused.

“You planned it all!” He yells. “Killing my family, all that crap about fate and destiny and having me be a little tool in your shitty apocalypse—“

Dean sucks in a harsh breath.

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?”

 

Chuck had remained quiet all through Dean’s tirade, and says nothing now. He looks up at him with those sad eyes, and Dean loses control, shoving him.

“You some masochistic bastard? Seriously—“

He shoves him again.

“What is the _point?”_ He yells.

 

 

 

Chuck doesn’t move from where Dean’s pushed him. He’s motionless, Dean's heaving breaths echoing around them, loud in the emptiness.

 

 

 

 

 

“People,” Chuck says quietly.

 

 

Dean lifts his head.

 

 

“You’re asking what the point of your life was?”

Chuck smiles sadly.

“People.”

“That’s not what I—“

“Not what you said, I know.” Chuck shrugs. “But it’s what you meant.”

He takes a deep breath, and suddenly, the fumbling nature Dean knew is gone—he doesn’t know why he didn’t see it before—and Chuck’s voice is deeper, graver—filled with a power Dean can’t even begin to understand.

 

Dean suddenly feels very small.

 

“You matter, Dean. Of course you matter.”

Chuck stands slowly, brushing the dirt from his clothes. He’s dressed all in white.

“Every life has a purpose.”

He walks forward, and Dean wants to run, but there’s nowhere to go.

 

 

“Your whole life was dedicated to people,” Chuck says softly. “To the nameless strangers you saved. To the friends, the family, the loves.”

Dean curls his fingers into the earth, his throat choked. Chuck continues.

“You did nothing but sacrifice for others, did nothing but give and give…”

He kneels.

“And now it’s your time to rest. You deserve it. Hell, if anyone deserves it, it’s you.”

And all at once, Dean feels something within him break. The dam on his anger melts and loosens in a flood, and it drains away, leaving him trembling.

 

“You mean, you aren’t pissed at me?” He laughs shakily.

The only thing he can manage is a weak joke.

“Thought I screwed your apocalypse all to hell,” Dean mutters.

Chuck laughs quietly.

“I’m glad you did.”

 

Dean looks up, hardly daring to believe it.

Chuck clasps his hands, heaving a sigh.

“Dean.”

 

 

He pauses briefly, then looks up, his eyes depthless.

“When I planned that life for you…I was young. I was headstrong. I looked out at my creation and decided…such a perfect world needed a perfect story to go along with it.”

Chuck picks at the dirt, crumbling red between his fingers.

“I had foolish designs…of fate, of destiny…letting everything play out as I saw fit.”

Dean stares at him, dumbfounded.

“But I told you. Writing is hard.”

Chuck shrugs sheepishly.

“And I couldn’t handle my own creation. I panicked.”

“So you left,” Dean breathes.

“Yes.”

 

Chuck looks up.

“Because I finally realized it wasn’t my place to interfere. Whatever choices humans make…they will always be better than anything I could have planned.”

 

x

 

Chuck spreads his arms.

“So you ask what was the point?”

He smiles at Dean.

 

“All of them.”

 

He waves a hand, and the world fades back in around them. The cabins, the rusted cars, even the goddamn weeds. But this time, there’s no fire. No war raging just outside the chainlink fence.

Instead, there’s only people. All hard and rough-looking, worn, tired—but still, people—warm and living and breathing, even here.

“In this world, these people are alive because of you.”

Dean is motionless, unable to speak.

“In countless other worlds, countless other lifetimes…”

Chuck trails off, watching him.

“You don’t seem to realize how many you’ve affected, Dean,” he says softly. “How many lives you saved.”

 

 

 

Dean fights against the lump in his throat, laughing bitterly.

“Big fuckin’ deal.”

He turns, rubbing his knuckles. They’re completely healed now, but the dried blood is still there, cracking like plaster on his skin.

“For every one who’s alive, there’s at least five dead,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. “I leave a trail of death everywhere I go. God—I don’t even know if I saved that girl—“

“Dean—”

“No!” Dean shouts, whirling. “ _No!_ I don’t deserve all this Zen Hare Krishna shit, I don’t understand why you’re doing this, I don’t—“

He brings his hands to his head, struggling for breath.

“I don’t know how you got your wires crossed up here or if this some new truly inventive torture, but fuck this,” he snarls, spitting the words like knives. “I know my name’s down for Hell. At least be man enough to admit it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“It’s not,” Chuck says quietly.

“Bullshit,” Dean snarls back.

 

 

 

 

And for the first time, Chuck seems angry.

 

“You’re not a bad person, Dean,” he says sharply. “How many times do I have to say it before you believe it?”

Dean scoffs, turning his head.

“Might take a few fuckin’ millennia.”

“No.”

 

 

Chuck marches up to him, his eyes frank.

“You made extraordinary decisions in extraordinary times. Many would have crumpled under that burden. You are stronger than you believe.”

 

Dean swallows. Chuck seems to cut through all the crap and know exactly where to dig into Dean's heart, finding his weak spots, his greatest fears, every damn time—and Dean is trying to run, but his walls are crumbling faster than he can put them up.

“No,” Dean stutters, taking a step back. His back hits the wood of the cabin, and he digs his fingers into it, trying to hold on to his sanity. “If there’s one thing my life’s shown me, that _you’ve_ shown me—is that I don’t deserve shit. I don’t deserve this.”

Chuck sighs.

“Dean—“

“Okay, so I saved some people!” Dean shouts. “So I did some good! It doesn’t change the fact that most of my life was _shit_.”

He gulps down the cold air, feeling a vengeful satisfaction as it stings his lungs.

“I poison everything good in my life,” he says, his voice dropping to a low hiss. “Always.”

 

 

“What about Sam?”

 

 

 

 

Dean whips his head around. Chuck’s gaze is intense and piercing.

“Sam…”

Dean chickens out, dropping his eyes to the ground.

“Sam turned out okay, I guess,” he whispers.

“And Cas—?”

 

Dean grabs Chuck and slams him against the wall.

 

 

 

 

“No.”

 

 

Dean tightens his grip.

 

“Don’t you do that. Don’t you dare.”

 

 

 

 

Chuck’s eyes are sad.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Blood is pounding in Dean's ears. Chuck keeps apologizing.

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

“Why?” Dean whispers.

“Because I want you to understand.”

 

Dean tightens his jaw, everything in him screaming to shut him up, to hit Chuck, to run.

“You are not to blame, Dean,” Chuck murmurs. “You were dealt the worst hand in the deck and did the best you could. Better than I ever dreamed.”

 

_Run, run._

 

“Even God can change, Dean,” he says softly.

 

 

 

Dean stares at him.

But finally—he lets Chuck go. Dean takes a few unsteady steps back, his legs feeling like they’re about to collapse.

 

 

“You’re admitting you were wrong," Dean says flatly.

 

 

 

Chuck dips his head.

“Yes.”

“God—admitting that he’s wrong.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re apologizing?”

“That too.” Chuck shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry for everything.”

 

 

Dean stands there, silent, his head and his heart battling against each other. He doesn’t know what to think. His thoughts are a mess, but he feels oddly calm.

 

 

“Who are you, really?” he asks.

 

“Everyone,” Chuck says, shrugging. “No one.”

 

 

Dean clutches at his own shirt, his breath spiraling out of him in icy red puffs.

“And Chuck?”

“A tool.”

 

_Just a tool._

Nothing more than a shadow.

 

“Why this place?” Dean whispers.

Chuck smiles, then gestures.

“Look at them.”

 

Dean looks over to the motley group hunched over the fire, all in various states of bone-tired weariness. Dean knows the look. He’s been there before. But despite all that, there’s so much life.

Two of them are laughing over a joke, one man is tuning an old guitar, and they all have genuine smiles, despite the bleakness of their surrounding.

“End of the world, everything going to hell…but there’s still so much love. So much hope.”

Chuck watches them, a father’s affection on his face.

“They protect each other. Help each other,” he murmurs. “The essence of humanity.”

“Still…”

“Dean.”

 

 

 

 

Chuck turns to him.

“I think you’re seeing something different.”

 

 

Chuck passes a hand in front of Dean's face—and the land in front of them transforms. Gone are the worn out cabins, the haze, the fire. Instead, trees grow, bright and tall before their eyes, bushes and streets and shrubs—spilling out onto a crimson field, the smoke melting away into a soft red sky.

It’s perfect, unspoiled beauty.

 

 

“I think it’ll happen someday.”

 

 

Chuck looks at him.

“Do you?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dean bolts forward.

“Wait—“

 

But Chuck is gone.

 

 

Dean tries to chase after him, but the world is fading—melting into waxy red, dripping into nothing, nothing—

He’s running forward, and then—

 

 

Blackness.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**“All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.** **”**

 

x

 

Dean comes to, his forehead pressed against something cool and solid.

 

He blinks, leather and glass sliding into his vision. A soft sprinkling of rain is spattered across the window, silhouetted and shining against the dark backdrop of the night.

Dean yawns and stretches, smiling as the familiar smell washes over him. It's calming, to be back in what is practically his home, especially after this shitshow of a divine roller coaster ride.

Then he realizes it’s his right cheek. Passenger seat.

 

He whirls, locking eyes with the man beside him.

“Hey, Dean,” he says softly.

 

 

He throws himself out of the car.

 

  

 

 

 

“Dean, wait—“

“No,  _no._  Fuck this shit, fuck  _you_.”

 

 

 

He runs, but he still hears that voice, calling his name. He picks up speed, trying to block it out.

“Dean.”

 

He jerks to a halt, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The car’s still there, right in front of him—like he never even moved an inch.

He slowly backs away, shaking his head.

 

“Dean. Please.”

 

That voice freezes him in his tracks, crackling with a practiced authority and power.

 

Dean’s breath rises in hot silver spirals. The cold night air bites at his skin.

 

“Why the fuck are you here?” He snaps.

 

 

 

 

 

 

John spreads his hands.

“I’m your third person.”

 

 

 

_Today Is Dean’s Birthday_

 

 

“C’mon, it was just a few dollars—“

“And you don’t think we’re scrapin’ by as it is? I told you not to lose that money!”

“I’ll get it back, Dad—it’s not a problem—“

“It wouldn’t have been a problem if you had just fuckin’ taken care of it!”

The door slams, hard.

 

Dean hears the engine growl, and the squeal of tires as Dad pulls out of the parking lot.

He clenches his jaw, fists balling in the loose material of his jeans.

 

 

He vaguely stumbles backwards, until his legs hit the edge of the bed, and he sits down, sinking heavily onto the mattress.

He stares at the shitty motel wall, unseeing.

 

 

 

Some time later, there’s a soft click as the door opens, and Sam walks in.

“Dean?”

His voice is hesitant.

 

Dean quickly sits up, wiping his eyes.

“Yeah. Hey.”

He slouches into an easy smile, plastering it onto his face.

Sam glances around, fiddling with the strap of his bag that hangs off his shoulder. Kid’s been at the library all day, studying for…what is it—chemistry? Biology test on Friday?

“Where’s Dad?” he asks carefully.

Dean digs his nails into his palm.

“He went out.”

 

Sam nods. He doesn’t have to say anything.

They both know he’ll stumble in some time past three a.m., sleep it off and be ready to go again by noon.

 

“Well.”

Sam fidgets, not looking at him.

“Um—happy birthday.”

Dean looks up.

“You remembered,” he says, a little dazedly.

Sam scoffs, dropping down beside him on the bed.

“Course I remembered, jerk.”

 

He shyly slips an arm around him, giving him a brief hug. Dean snorts back a laugh and returns it, ruffling his hair as they part. Kid’s almost as tall as he is now.

Sam smiles sheepishly, and they go back to sitting in silence, staring at the floor.

 

Dean scuffs at the carpet with his toe. Sam bites at his nails.

 

Then he seems to make a decision, quickly bending over and digging through his backpack, as if he expects Dean to stop him. Dean opens his mouth, ready to tell him that he doesn’t need any presents—when Sam surfaces, a bunch of pamphlets in his hands.

“I, uh—I got these for you.”

He practically shoves them in his face, and Dean takes them, confused.

 

“Don’t be mad at me,” Sam says.

Dean frowns, glancing down at the page.

 

_Achieve more, dream more—Get your GED today!_

He looks up, dumbstruck.

 

Sam holds up his hands.

“I—I saw you looking at them last case we were on,” he blurts. “And you know, I feel like crap, you moving around so much, when I actually got to go to real school, and I—“

He pauses briefly, then barrels on.

“And there were a couple in the school's office, so I figured, hey, might as well.”

Dean just stares at him.

“Because Dad would have a fit, and I know you’d never do it yourself, so no, don’t freakin’ look at me like that,” Sam mumbles.

Dean stares wordlessly down at the bright lettering, and he closes his fist around it, tight enough that his hand starts to hurt. He knows he should probably say something, but his voice isn’t cooperating.

Sam bites his lip.

 

“You’re my brother, Dean,” he says softly. “I know you better than I know myself sometimes.”

He sighs. 

“You can be pissed at me all you want, but…just promise me you’ll read them. Okay?”

Dean vaguely realizes that he’s nodding.

‘Yeah,” he chokes out. “Okay.”

 

Sam’s face splits out into a huge smile, and before Dean can defend himself—Sam is leaping on him again, hugging him tight. Dean scoffs, shoving him away.

“Alright, Sasquatch. Calm down.”

Sam lets him go, but he’s still beaming at him. Dean scowls, aiming a half-hearted punch at his shoulder. Sam ducks it and escapes, laughing as he drops his bag on the table.

Dean shakes his head, looking back down at the pamphlet in his hands. He runs a thumb over the edge of the pages, his eyes burning. 

“Hey, Sam.”

Sam looks up, and Dean clears his throat.

“Thanks,” he says. “Thank you.”

Sam gives him that big dumb grin again. 

“No problem.”

Dean quickly stands and shoves the pamphlet into his own bag, a stupid smile slowly spreading across his face.

“Oh, hey—“

 

Sam turns suddenly, heading towards the shitty motel fridge.

“I got you a cake, too!” he says enthusiastically.

Dean heaves a groan.

 

“Jesus Christ, Sammy. Pie—PIE.”

 

 

x

 

 

 

“You’re my third person,” Dean whispers harshly.

 

 

His fear feels like bile, rising in his throat. It’s been over thirty years since he’s seen his father, but he’s still terrified. Of a wrong word, a wrong step, or—

“Yes,” John says, nodding.

 

 

Then something snaps inside him.

No, that’s not fear.

Dean’s angry. He’s  _furious._

 

John cautiously moves closer, his footsteps crunching the gravel road.

“Dean, we have to talk.” 

“Talk.”

It’s not funny, but all Dean wants to do is laugh. 

“You want to  _talk_.”

He fights against the urge to retch, his stomach twisted in a sort of delirious nausea.

“What, you gonna fucking teach me something?” Dean spits. “Something you couldn’t drill into me during your time on earth?”

His father doesn't respond. He just looks down at his feet. 

“You’re angry,” John says softly.

“Of course I’m angry.”

 

Dean breathes in hard through his nose.

“And you know what? This may be part of Heaven’s healing process or whatever—but I sure as shit don’t want to talk to you.”

“Dean—“

“No,” he growls. “I’m done with this crap. Done.”

He stalks away from him, the stars of a milky twilight lighting the way.

 

His heaven before was a road, right? He’ll just follow it, and he’ll get back to Ellen if he can. Maybe he’ll find Cas—

Dean stops abruptly. The Impala’s in front of him again, immovable and silent.

And for the first time, he wants to see her reduced to scrap.

 

 

“Dean, please.”

 

A heavy sigh.

“Just hear me out,” John says quietly. “Then I’m gone, I swear.”

Dean exhales harshly, glaring up at the sky. It shimmers above him, bronze and brown sugar and gold. He plasters a scornful smile on his face, turning to face him. Hell, he just punched frikkin’  _God_ in the face. He can do this.

 

“Fine.”

 

He spreads his hands.

“Come on. Go all Obi-wan on my ass.”

John raises an eyebrow, and Dean immediately tenses, so used to his father’s quick temper and explosive reactions to disobedience.

So he’s not prepared for what John says next.

 

 

“You have to let go of your anger.”

 

 

x

 

 

It’s hot. It smells hot—thick and muggy with the stifling feeling of the midsummer air—like the days when he would work for hours out in Bobby’s lot, fixing the Impala back into to working condition. His dad's tools and the burning metal under his hands, polishing her until she shined.

It makes his heart race. It makes his blood boil.

 

 

“Oh, that’s good.”

That horrible forced laugh sounds again.

“Really fuckin’ funny, coming from you,” Dean snarls.

 

John runs a hand through his hair, his shoulders locked and tense.

“I know. I know. But please, just listen—“

“You have no right,” Dean breathes. “No goddamn right to say that to me—“

“I met my own five people here, too, Dean.”

John looks down.

“Believe me. Dying was the greatest wake up call I ever had.”

“Shut up!” Dean yells. “Just shut up!”

 

John falls silent. Dean glares at him, breathing heavily.

He’s surprised by his own sudden force. He’s never talked back to Dad like that. Never.

Maybe something in Heaven is finally uncurling his programming, all the locked up lessons in his head. Everything is bubbling up inside him—the rage, the hurt, the confusion—and Dean can’t hold it back any longer.

“You wanna know what  _your_ anger did?” He snarls. “Screwed me to fucking hell."

He taps the side of his head.

"And up here—nothing but grade-A crap. Because all _you_ cared about was hunting. Revenge. Obsessed with killing the Yellow Eyed Demon. And you know who finally did that?”

Dean's voice echoes around them, the spattered smoke-colored air seeming to throb with the force of it.

“ _I_  did,” he yells. “I did that for you!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Do you want to hit me?” John asks quietly.

 

 

“What?” Dean stutters out. 

 

“Will that make you feel better?” John asks, completely serious.

Dean doesn’t move for a minute, contemplating. Then, without warning, he socks him.

 

And unlike Chuck, he bleeds. Dean hits him again, feeling a violent satisfaction when John stumbles.

“Alright, alright—“

He breathes heavily, pressing the back of his hand to his nose. 

“Don’t take my eye out, kid,” he says gruffly. He starts to stand, gingerly checking his face.

 

 

“How are you even here?” Dean spits at him.

John shrugs. 

“Opening that Hell Gate let me out. Must’ve been scooped up by a reaper.”

He wipes his nose again and straightens, turning to face him.

“So I’m up here. Might as well get it over with, kiddo.”

 

x

 

“Fine,” Dean snaps. “You got five minutes.”

 

John opens his mouth briefly, as if he’s about to make some sort of reprimand—but then seems to change his mind. Dean doesn’t miss the stubborn clench of his jaw though, or the way his hands twitch.

 

John stares down at the black road. Then he sighs, sinking back against the Impala’s metal frame.

“I was so angry after your mother died,” he murmurs. 

Dean’s throat catches.

“I let it eat at me, until it consumed everything else,” John says, shaking his head.  “I used it as my rationale, my reason.  _If I could just kill this demon_ , I thought. Then it would be over. Then it would all be worth it.”

He scratches the graying stubble on his cheek, his tone rough.

“Then it would all be justified, all that crap I put you and Sam through.”

 _But it wasn’t_ , Dean thinks.

“But it wasn’t,” his father says.

 

Dean stares at him. John looks up slowly, meeting his eyes.

 

“And for that…I’m sorry.”

 

x

 

“I see her sometimes,” John says quietly.

Dean feels a sudden burst of longing in his chest, the rekindling of an ache he's tried to bury since he was four years old. 

John scuffs at the dirt with his boot.

“And god…that first conversation…” He trails off, letting out a short laugh.

“A hunter herself.” He shakes his head. “Never would’ve guessed.”

“Where—“

Dean takes a deep breath, forcing himself to ask.

“Dad. Where is she?”

 

 

John avoids his gaze. His eyes are downcast, something in them hard and pained.

“She has her own heaven.”

Dean speaks hesitantly.

“You don’t…”

“No,” John says, answering his unspoken question.

 

His father shifts his weight. The Impala creaks.

 

“Son, I—“

He looks away.

“I know it’s hard to think about, but it’s the truth. We’re not soulmates. Part of me thinks we never were.”

Dean screws his eyes shut, not wanting to hear it.

But John is still talking.

“Not the way you and Sam seem to be,” he murmurs. “Or that angel of yours.”

 

Dean freezes.

 

 

“He came to visit me,” John says softly. “Right after he, uh…arrived.”

Dean's heart pounds, loud and thick in his chest. All the air has gone out of his lungs.

 

 

“Hell of a strange story you got there,” John says.

Dean stays completely still. Everything in him is screaming to run.

 

John stands suddenly.

“Stop looking like your damn dog died,” he says gruffly. “I’m not mad.”

 

 

He blinks.

_What?_

 

John starts pacing, awkwardly shuffling back and forth on the dusty road.

“Ah, hell,” he mutters. “What kind of person am I, to make my son’s face look like that—to make him afraid of telling me about the person he loves?”

He’s suddenly embarrassed, rubbing his neck.  

“Not gonna lie, it was…hard to accept. At first,” he says quickly. “But I…I’d like to think I’ve become a little bit less of an asshole.”

“Yeah,” Dean says shakily. “Jury’s still out on that one.”

John glances up, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face. Dean belatedly realizes he’s returning it.

He hastily clears his throat and looks away.

 

“I’m glad you finally found happiness.”

  
His father walks forward, a hesitant edge to his voice.

“You were tryin’ so hard to be who I wanted you to be, that you never got to be you,” he says softly. “And I’m sorry.”

He looks down.

“Guess some good came from my death after all.”

“Dad—“ Dean chokes out.

“Dean, I know I’m not a good father,” he says sadly. “I never was, I know that. And after Mary passed, I—“

He sighs.

“I was messed up. Everything I was was fueled by anger. And I think you were too, for the longest time.”

Dean closes his eyes, trying to breathe.

“But you didn’t let it consume you,” John says. “And that’s why you were a better man than I ever was.”

 

Dean looks up sharply. John's eyes are sad.

“I never knew how much I damaged you until I got here,” he says softly. “This place helped me make sense of everything. I hope the same happens for you.”

Dean deflates. The anger isn’t gone, far from it, but now he feels unable to fight back. He feels empty.

“Do you have any idea what you did to me?” He whispers. “I couldn’t sleep for weeks when I failed you, I could never let anything go, I still flinch any time I dare disagree with someone I love—“

He inhales sharply, a jagged pain in his lungs.

“I punched a kid in my class one time for just  _looking_  at me funny, and I couldn’t fucking touch Cas for three weeks, even after—“

 

Dean stops, halting for breath.

 

 

John doesn't move.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he breathes. “I know I can’t ever take back what I did to you. For all the shit I put you through, but all I can say is I’m sorry.”

His eyes are full of pain, and Dean almost wants to believe him.

“I know you’ve been carryin’ it all these years. But it’s time to let go. You can let go now.”

Dean tries to scoff, but it’s broken by the sound of choked back tears.

“Yeah, well.” He swallows, his voice shaking. “That’s really fucking hard.”

John dips his head. He doesn’t speak.

 

“I fucking hated you. God, I  _hated_ you.”

 

Dean meets his eyes, broken and pleading.

“I was a kid, Dad. I…I couldn’t handle it,” he whispers. “It was too much.”

 

John shakes his head, his own eyes glistening.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

 

x

 

 

John takes a deep breath.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me. But tell me you understand.”

 

Dean stares up at the sky, the soft velvet black of the night feeling like it could swallow him up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Okay.”

 

 

John looks up. Dean closes his eyes.

 

“Okay,” he says again, stuttering a little over the word. “I get it.”

A flicker of hope passes over his father’s face.

“Yeah?”

Dean glances at him, then drops his gaze, nodding.

“Yeah. I really do.”

 

 

He feels like he’s been scooped out, hollowed clean. A great heavy weight has been lifted from his shoulders, one he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying.

 

 

“You know one conversation isn’t going to fix everything,” Dean mutters. John nods.

“I know.”

He sticks his hands in the pockets of that leather jacket.

“But we got time.”

 

 

They stand opposite each other on the broken road, avoiding each other’s eyes. John pulls a hand out of his pocket.

 

“Here.”

 

Dean looks up. The Impala’s keys, glittering silver in the moonlight.

John steps forward, and Dean automatically sticks out his hand. John drops the keys into his palm, then steps back, a hesitant smile crossing his face.

 

Dean curls his fingers around them, not blinking. There’s a lump in his throat, tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

 

 

 

Towards the east, an orange sun is rising, bathing them in a soft gold. They watch silently as it makes its way over the horizon, their shadows shrinking before them.

“Hey. Dean.”

 

Dean breathes, turning to face his father.

 

“Will you come see me sometime?”

 

Dean grips the keys so hard his hand starts to hurt.

He wants to say no.

 

 

“Alright,” he says finally.

 

John smiles. Then between one breeze and the next, he’s gone.

 

 

 

x 

 

 **“Lost love is still love. It takes a different form, that’s all. You can’t see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it.** **”**

 

x

 

 

 

Dean breathes slowly, fighting against the sleepy feel of the late summer air.

He walks over, placing a hand on the top of the Impala.

The door’s open, as if it’s waiting for him. But he doesn’t get in.

 

He buries his face into his arms on top of her metal frame, and finally, he lets go.

 

 

 

 

 

When Dean looks up again, the sky has turned burnt and dusky around him, slow spirals of brown and crimson on the wind. He carefully wipes his eyes, slipping the keys into his pocket.

 

He starts off down the gravel road, giving way to soft dirt beneath his feet.

The air pushes him slightly, towards the next stage, the next step, the next person.

But this time, he’s not afraid.

 

 

The horizon stares him down, wide and red.

It’s almost as it’s whispering to him, urging him on, beckoning him closer.

 

 

 

 

 

So he runs.

 

 

 

It’s all orange now—free and floating in the gentle breeze, the smell of copper hanging heavy in crisp morning air.

Dean pants, pushing himself forward. His lungs burn, but he doesn’t want to stop. It’s the good kind of ache—the kind that lets him know he’s alive—that even here, he’s alive.

He wants to run like this forever.

 

He glances over his shoulder, feeling a strange sort of thrill when he realizes he can’t see the Impala anymore. It’s faded away—the dirt road melting and sinking into the pomegranate grass, the sky fizzling to a bright lemon yellow.

Dean whoops, his chest heaving. The sound echoes around him and the air seems to sing with it, and he lets out a short laugh, exhilarated.

 

Then his foot catches, and he trips. Over what, he doesn’t know—rock, root, his own damn feet—but he goes down hard, hands coming out to brace himself.

He hits the ground, but it doesn’t hurt.

Nothing hurts anymore.

 

 

 

Dean pants, gulping down the sweet lilac air. His fingers curl into the earth below him, crumbling perfectly in his hands. It turns blue and hot and he lets it fall away onto the rug below.

 

 

He blinks, thinking maybe it’s just an illusion.

 

But no. It’s still there. The rug. That ugly-ass rug Cas had insisted on buying when they had finally put the deposit down on the new place—on their place.

He takes a deep breath, running his hands down the length of it. Cas had turned up one afternoon with the goddawful piece of crap, saying something about making the place somewhat homey.

Dean had hated the thing with a vengeance.

 

 

He pushes himself up, seizing the back of the couch for balance. He digs his fingers into the soft material, trying to slow his breath.

 

He's here.

 

He's home.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Linneart for this gorgeous art! [x](http://chevrolangels.tumblr.com/post/142696149408/thank-you-so-much-for-this-commission-from-the)

 

 

 

Dean stumbles into the kitchen.

 

There’s the aroma of something cooking, the smell hot and bittersweet. It smells like Sunday afternoons, lazy and relaxed, all tangled up in each other. Sometimes they didn't get out of bed til it was past noon.

Because there were no deadlines. No pressing cases, nothing to run off to. It was just them, and a big bed, and Cas—rousing Dean from sleep with his hands, warm and wide over his back. It was an ancient bed, old wood that creaked and groaned as they moved slowly against each other—but they didn’t care.

A few short bright beautiful years, ripped cruelly away from him as soon as they had started. Dean had never gotten over the feeling of waking up to see the other side of the bed empty. Funny how we can last a lifetime without it, but one small taste of happiness, and you’re ruined forever.

 

The back door is open, like Cas always leaves it now—after that one fiasco when he tried to make dinner, then got too lost in his book and forgot the oven was still on. They spent nearly three days trying to air the smoke smell out. It's his favorite spot—by the creek out back, to read, to relax, or to simply sit and watch the sky turn into a fading dusk.

Dean places a hand against the doorframe. He’s shaking.

There’s his chair—empty or not, Dean can’t tell—but it’s there, and he’s finally back. Here, at the house, _their_ house, and Dean isn’t sure if he’s about to wake up.

 

The chair is rocking slowly. An elbow peeks out, propping itself up on the arm of the chair, followed by a cheek, and a dark knot of messy hair.

Dean can only stare.

 

The chair rocks. The breeze blows.

 

 

 

 

“Cas?” He whispers.

 

 

It’s a long moment, but then the chair creaks, the man stands, and everything stops.

He turns, those eyes crinkling as his face is graced with that perfect smile.

 

“Hello, Dean.”

 

 

 

 

 

_Today is Dean’s Birthday_

 

 

Dean shuffles down the hallway of the bunker, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

Thirty-nine. So close to forty, so close to a milestone most people consider important. And for Dean, it might have passed insignificantly, another year, another birthday. Nothing special.

But this time, it’s different. Because he didn’t wake up alone.

 

 

Because Dean had been sharing his bed for almost a month, one perfect month since Castiel had entered his room, swiftly and silently. One month since everything changed.

 

Looking back now, it almost makes Dean want to laugh. Never in his wildest dreams, his secret dreams of a normal life—he had never seen it happening like this.

If it ever managed to happen, god—he had expected an awkward flurry of hands and lips, panicked and desperate after a close call, or maybe just confessing it all, laying it bare when there was nothing to lose, on one of their many last nights on earth.

He had never expected this.

Dean hadn’t expected Cas to stop by his bedroom in the bunker, instead of heading off to his own room, to get the sleep he needed, for a body now tired and human again.

Dean hadn’t expected Cas to ignore all his questions and just say it.

 

But he did.

 

Cas said it, and then just stood there, staring at him in that infuriating way of his, eyes intense and piercing.

And Dean was speechless.

 

 

The conversation that followed was perhaps one of the most difficult and most awkward of his life—navigating sex and relationships with an age-old angel who had barely a decade of experience in humanity, hashing out all the shit that they had done to each other over the years—but in the end, it all seemed worth it.

Cas merely asked if he could stay, and Dean wordlessly opened his arms.

 

 

They fell asleep like that, slipping off into tomorrow, woken eventually by the gentle sounds of Sam moving about the bunker.

 

Dean hadn’t had a nightmare since.

 

 

 

 

He walks carefully back from the kitchen, careful not to spill the coffee. He slips into their room, quietly shutting the door behind him with his foot. But just inside the doorway, he pauses.

Cas is still asleep, snoring softly, and at the sight of him, all tangled up in the sheets of Dean’s bed—

Something tugs deep inside his chest, and he's almost overwhelmed by the feeling, something he can't really describe. It's like warmth and nervousness and a slight edge of melancholy, but Dean swallows, and pushes it all aside. 

He quietly sets the mugs down. He takes a deep breath.

Then he softly walks over to the bed, slipping back in beside Cas under the covers.

 

 

_I love you._

Cas had said it the way he said everything else—with that strong conviction, slow and sincere, and Dean couldn’t help but believe him.

 

He closes his eyes, pressing his face against Cas’s sleeping back. Dean listens to him breathe for a moment, selfishly reveling in the soft movement of Cas's body against his own.

But he can’t stand it any longer.

 

Dean presses a gentle kiss to his spine.

“Cas.”

 

He kisses up his bare skin, up to his shoulder blades, up his arms, his neck—and finally Cas stirs, muttering sleepily.

“Dean…?” he murmurs, in a voice that’s ready to drop off again. Dean slips a hand around Cas's waist, nosing into his back.

“I’m ready,” he whispers.

Cas turns so he can see him properly, completely awake now.

“I want you,” Dean says quietly. Cas is still. Dean shivers a little, continuing to press kisses up his arm, shoulder, and finally to his lips.

“Please, Cas.” He whispers.  “Please.”

 

 

They move a little hesitantly, a little slow, but every touch laced with a strange sense of urgency. They both know they have all the time in the world, but still—Cas touches him like it’s the last time he ever will, a slight edge of desperation in the way he grips at Dean's arms, his back, his legs—and he kisses Dean endlessly, pressing words of love and devotion into his skin, Cas's eyes never leaving his.

 

Dean sinks his forehead against Cas’s, his breath harsh and ragged. They rock slowly back and forth, sweaty and sticking together with tongues and heat, as Cas murmurs words in a language Dean can’t understand. He curls his hands into the sheets, panting hard.

“C-cas. Cas.”

Castiel holds his gaze, not blinking. Dean’s tongue is frozen, he chokes on his words.

“I’m here,” Cas murmurs, burying the words in his mouth.

_I’m here, Dean_ , breathed into every inch of his skin.

_I’m here. We’re here. We’re finally here._

 

A few breathless moments, fingers skimming over skin, small little sounds, endless sighs.

Dean kisses him roughly, panting desperately in the space between their lips. Cas’s hands drift over Dean's body like he’s praying, worshipping, and Dean breaks.

 

 

“Cas—”

He forces those eyes on him.

 

“You—you know, right?”

 

 

Cas fixes him with that stare, and Dean swallows, eyes brimming with tears.

“You know I do, too?” he whispers.

 

But Castiel just nods.

“Yes, Dean,” he breathes, capturing his lips with a kiss.

 

 

“I know.”

 

x

 

 

They lay back, against the grass of the bed of the creek, and they talk.

They talk, talk and talk about everything.

 

 

Dean tells Cas about the years he missed, about Sam, about the cancer. He tells him all the things he had filed away over the years, all those little things that tugged at his heart, whenever he thought, _Cas. Cas would have liked this._

And Cas tells him back. He tells Dean about this world, the angels, and those who came to visit him in his Heaven, for his now very human soul. Everything that passed in the time they were apart.

Dean listens, just content to stare. He could watch him forever.

 

Cas laughs, he frowns, his brow furrows in that heartbreakingly familiar way—but he smiles the widest at the retelling of the day Sam finally adopted a dog, and Dean aches.  

In the years after Cas died, his memory had faded—in that infuriating way memories eventually fade, and Dean was left with only small moments. But now Cas is here, real and sitting in front of him, and all Dean wants is time.

And he gets it. He doesn’t know how long they lie there, talking and watching the gently shifting skies of Cas’s Heaven. It could be years. Days. Endless hours, months, seconds.

 

 

Dean looks down at their intertwined hands, lazily stroking his thumb back and forth over Cas’s skin.

“You did this too?” He asks. “You met five people?”

Cas nods.

“I was a bit of a special case,” he muses. “I believe I am the only angel to fall twice, and retain a soul that would allow me a Heaven.” He gently squeezes Dean's hand.

“Perhaps God simply wanted me to have this,” Cas says, his voice thoughtful.

 

Dean props himself up on his elbow, hesitating a little.

“Do you know…that…uh…”

Cas squints at him, and Dean almost wants to laugh.

“Um…that it’s…it’s Chuck?”

 

And to his surprise, Cas laughs, running a hand through his dark hair. Streaked with traces of gray, just as Dean remembers it.

“Yes, I know now.”

He snorts, shaking his head.

“Believe me, I was just as surprised as you.”

 

Dean sits up, giddy and nervous and excited all at once.

“I may have, um…”

Cas tilts his head, watching him. Dean shrugs.

“Beat him up a little.”

Cas just raises an eyebrow.

 

“Only a little?”

 

 

 

Dean laughs, tugging him up.

“Oh, please tell me you went all righteous on his ass.”

Cas just grins.

 

x

 

Dean had managed to scrape out his small moments of normalcy, even in his hunter’s life. It was something he had been proud of, even if it had been just for a moment. That he got out. That he found something else.

But it always felt hollow. Uncomfortable, and just wrong—like he was wearing someone else’s clothes, too tight in some places, too loose in others, all unwanted. All not his.

But with Cas…it was never a struggle.

 

He wasn’t perfect. Dean wasn’t perfect either. Their lives definitely weren’t. Hell, nothing was. But Cas was damaged in the way Dean was damaged, and instead of destroying each other, they filled in the cracks. They were broken, and they held each other together.

Perhaps that’s why it felt so right, when Cas asked about it. A place of their own.

Dean didn’t hesitate in saying yes.

 

 

It was small. It was old. It had been scrubbed clean to the illusion of newness, everything inside worn and practically falling apart—but it was theirs. Cas poured his heart into it, repainting and repairing everything himself, smacking Dean away when he tried to help, and then grudgingly letting him after Dean threatened to burn his trenchcoat.

They didn’t stop hunting. Hell, far from it. But at the end of the day they had a place to come back to. Instead of shitty motel beds, they had a room of their own. Not too far, obviously—still close to Sam and the job, but theirs. Just theirs.

And on the final day, Dean came up behind Cas, taking those hands that smelled like paint and wood, and pulled him into his arms, watching the summer sun stream in through the windows.

“It’s done,” Cas breathed.

“It’s perfect,” Dean whispered back.

That was the one thing the bunker never had, for all its protections and gadgets. There were no windows. While it came in handy for dark nights in Dean’s bed, something in Castiel needed the light. He always had the windows open, letting in the sun and the world outside. Dean always thought it reminded him of flying.

 

 

And afterwards, it was never the same. Cas was in every curve and corner of that house, and Dean couldn’t handle it. He imagined he could still smell him in the air, feel him moving around in the next room, as if at any moment, Cas would walk through the door, smiling at him as if nothing had happened.

So Dean sold the place, moved to the bunker, and never looked back.

 

x

 

They’re laying side by side, like they so often are in their heaven.

“So do you…”

Cas angles his head down, peering at him. Dean absentmindedly plays with the buttons on Cas's shirt, unwilling to stop touching him for even just a second.

“Do you choose? Or does Heaven just…it just spits out what you want?”

 

Cas is silent, thinking over the question.

“Perhaps both,” he says eventually. “I do believe there is some choice.”

He rolls onto his back, sighing at the blue sky.

“Because this is what I would choose, and it’s what I received,” he murmurs. “My happiest days with you.”

 

 

Dean watches him, watches that face he’s memorized down to the last laugh line.

_My happiest days_

His happiness quickly sours, and he feels sick.

_With you._

 

“Cas.”

 

 

Castiel looks over, his eyes soft and warm.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers.

 

Cas’s smile fades. Dean grips at his hand, desperate to explain.

“I’m so damn sorry,” he hushes out. “Because I never—the last thing I said to you, god—Cas—“

“Dean—"

Cas takes him into his arms, wrapping him up.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs.

Dean shudders back a breath, violently shaking his head.

“No—it was horrible, and I—“

Cas tries to shush him, but Dean needs to get it out.

“And I never got the chance to apologize, I didn’t—“

“Dean.”

 

Castiel silences him with a kiss, and Dean gives up. He kisses back, even though he doesn’t deserve it. Because he’s weak, he’s so weak, and he needs Cas. He needs Castiel.

“I never stopped thinking about it,” Dean mumbles, clinging desperately to his shirt. “Every day, every fucking day. Just what if, what if—“

He chokes, unable to continue. Cas presses his lips to his temple.

“It’s okay,” he breathes. “Dean, it’s okay.”

“ _No_ —“

Dean jerks himself up, shaking. Cas watches him with sad eyes.

“Because what if I didn’t say that—“ he blurts. “What if after I slammed out the door I had come back, and what if—“

Castiel grabs his hands, pulling him in close.

“I let you down,” Dean gasps. “I—“

“It’s not your fault,” Castiel whispers. “It never was.”

 

He curves a hand around Dean's cheek, tipping his head up, and Dean’s argument dies in his throat.

“Look at me,” Cas says gently.

 

 

 

Dean tightens his grip. Then he does. Tearfully, slowly.

 

Castiel’s eyes roam all over his face, blue and endless.

“Why do you do this, Dean Winchester?” he murmurs.

He presses his lips to Dean's forehead.

“You are strong.”

“You are loved.”

“You are worthy.”

 

Cas takes Dean's face in his hands.

“You will always deserve to be saved,” he whispers.

 

Dean clutches weakly at Cas's wrist, barely able to breathe.

“You will always be the righteous man,” Cas says softly. “The one God called up from the pits of the Earth to fulfill his destiny.”

Dean dips his head.

“Kinda fucked that one up though, didn’t I?” He mutters, letting out a choked laugh.

He feels Cas’s smile rather than sees it, his lips grazing his cheek.

“It’s not your fault, Dean,” he whispers into his ear. “Sometimes there are events beyond your control.”

 

 

Castiel’s hand finds his, and Dean clings to him, shuddering out a rough breath.

“You’re never gonna be able to make me be okay about it,” he whispers.

Cas is still.

 

“Dean.”

 

 

 

He gently pulls him up, holding him as the sky melts around them. Indigo into soft aquamarine, then deep royal blue.

 

“Even if it was your fault—your mistakes do not discount your good deeds,” Cas says. “Your flaws do not define you. What defines you, is _you._ Your sacrifices. Your goodness. Your heart,” he murmurs, pressing a palm to his chest. The two of them are still, both feeling the soft beat beneath his hand.

“Why are you telling me this?” Dean whispers.

Castiel smiles sadly, brushing the hair back from Dean's face.

“Because every day we woke up in that bed together, I saw it.”

His hand finds his cheek.

“That little unguarded moment. A flash of relief and wonder, like you couldn’t believe I was still there. Like you expected me to have disappeared,” Cas says, a note of pain in his voice.

“Cas…” Dean starts, but Cas shakes his head.

“You never seemed to believe my love for you,” he murmurs. “You never understood how much I needed you too.”

Dean stares at him, unable to speak. Cas brushes a thumb over his cheek, smiling softly.

“I tried to tell you without words,” he says quietly. “An oversight on my part, perhaps.”

He smiles wryly.

“You always were rather oblivious.”

 

Dean dips his head, choking out a laugh.

“Fuck you.”

Cas laughs too, pulling him close.

“Twelve years up here and you’re still a sarcastic asshole,” Dean mutters, burying his face into his neck.

“That’s one thing they’ll never knock out of me,” Cas whispers back.

 

 

He holds Dean, slowly dragging a hand through his hair.

 

“It’s okay,” he breathes.

 

 

 

 

And they lie there, on the banks of the river, just holding each other.

 

Dean doesn’t dare let go. He thinks if he does, Cas might disappear.

 

x

 

 

Castiel’s Heaven leaves him in awe.

Dean wanted to forget, sometimes. That Cas was an angel. And in a couple of dizzying bright perfect moments, he did. Because back then, Cas was warm and breathing and human by his side, and it was so easy to pull him under his arm, for Dean to tuck his face into his hair, to whisper _Good night, Cas_. And when Dean watched him sleep, illuminated by the dim glow of the streetlights outside, Dean fell into a fantasy of easy, of normal—a world where the two of them were equals.

But he thinks something in him always knew. Sitting in the back of his mind, some small voice cruelly reminding him of the truth.

Cas never really belonged. He was divine, sacred, a child of God. And in death, he finally returned to his rightful place.

Even Dean can tell—it's almost like Heaven _knows_. It curls around them and wraps him up like a soft cloud, as if to say—

 

_Welcome, Castiel. Welcome Home._

 

Dean can see the edges of it, beyond their house. It spreads out before him in countless layers, bright and beautiful. He glances to his left, and sees something like an open field, where a man flies a kite. And there, an ocean—blue and calm, waves washing up on an endless shore. Above them, the vaulting ceiling of a cathedral, spiraling away into the sky.

But all Dean can see is the house. Their house, small and ordinary. The place Castiel chose.

 

He chose this. He chose Dean.

 

 

 

 

“It’s just as you remember,” Cas says softly, answering his unspoken fear. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

 

Dean runs his hand over the table, the one he had made himself. One of its legs was shorter than the other three, and it never sat quite right—a fact Cas never let him forget. Dean presses down and it tilts unevenly, making him smile.

“One of the most special things about you is your ability to love.”

 

 

 

It comes out of the blue, and Dean’s first instinct is to tense up. In his younger days, he might have thrown out some retort, a joke, some thin defense.

But it’s Cas.

He could never hide from Cas.

 

“After the life you’ve had, it would be so easy to turn down a road of hate and bitterness,” Cas says, his hand solid and sure in his. “But that never happened to you.”

“It was a near thing,” Dean mutters.

“No.”

 

Cas’s eyes gleam, and for a second, Dean sees a spark of his old fire. It reminds him of the ancient power and knowledge hidden under that skin, and Dean falls for him all over again.

“It was never a possibility,” Castiel says. “Because of your love. Your great love. For your mother, your brother…even your father.”

Dean turns away, his throat thick. He’s not ready to think about Dad just yet.

“And me.”

 

He turns to him.

“You never stopped loving me,” Cas says softly. “I felt it. Even here.”

 

“You did?” Dean breathes.

Cas nods.

 

He gently squeezes his hand, and Dean wants to cry. 

 

 

They’re silent for a few moments.

 

 

“Hey, Cas?”

“Hmm?”

Dean swallows.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Cas doesn’t say anything, but Dean knows he understands. 

 

 

 

 

Castiel smiles with pride at the things they’ve accumulated, and Dean’s heart breaks. He buries his face into Cas’s neck, inhaling deeply. Cas frowns, tightening around him.

“Dean?” He murmurs, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Are you alright?”

Dean just nods, breathing him in, breathing in Cas.

 

“How ‘bout you show me that bed of ours?”

 

 

 

 

 

The sheets are all rumpled, messy and all over the place—as if they had gotten up after a rushed morning, and neither of them had time to tidy it up, even if Cas was a stickler for chores.

 

Dean sits on the edge of the bed, tugging Cas close. He grips the front of his shirt, breathing weakly against his chest. He just holds him for a moment.

Cas’s hands drift softly through his hair. They don’t need to speak.

Dean looks up, and Cas meets his eyes.

 

 

 

He falls, and Cas falls with him.

 

x

 

 

The windows are open. A soft breeze drifts through, carrying in the gentle sounds of the summer heat.

 

Castiel drags his knuckles up the line of Dean’s back, wiping away the sweat cooling there. He sighs and moves in closer, pressing his lips to the back of his neck.

Dean’s eyes drift closed, an unconscious smile crossing his face.

 

And for the first time, it really feels like Heaven.

 

 

 

 

 

“You have to go,” Cas whispers.

 

 

Dean stiffens.

 

Cas feels the tension in his body and smoothes a hand over Dean's arm, trying to calm him, but it doesn’t help.

 

“No,” Dean stutters out, clenching his fists. “No.”

 

 

He rolls over, snatching up Cas’s hand, as if that could keep him tethered to the ground.

“No,” Dean says firmly. “I’m not leaving you. Not again.”

Cas is peaceful and soft against him, one hand on his cheek.

“I’m only the fourth, Dean,” he whispers. “There is still another for you to meet.”

“No!”

Dean yanks himself up.

“You fucking hear me? No!”

He’s wild, lost in a storm, eyes fixed on that gentle blue.

“Take it up with your goddamn father if you got a problem, alright? I’m not fucking leaving you.”

Cas sits up, reaching for him.

“Dean—“

“Tell him this whole system is bullshit—this whole sorry excuse for a heaven is _fucked!_ ” Dean shouts.

 

 

 

 

“Dean.”

 

Dean is trembling.

“No,” he mumbles. “Please, no.”

 

Cas brings a hand to his head, and Dean sinks, falling into his arms. Cas holds him, rocking him as he might a child, and Dean is lost.

“Cas,” he begs. “Please.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas whispers.

Castiel kisses him, thumb gently brushing away the tears streaking his cheeks.

“You have to,” he murmurs.

Dean clings to him, his breath stuttering and starting against his chest.

“No,” he sobs. “No.”

Cas strokes through his hair.

“It’s okay,” he soothes. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay—”

Dean looks up, meeting Cas's eyes. When he speaks again, it’s barely more than a whisper.

 

“What if I never see you again?”

 

 

 

Cas’s eyes are endless, dark and wide in his sorrow.

He tips Dean's chin up.

“Beloved,” he murmurs. “We are God’s children now.”

Castiel breathes the words into the space between their lips, cool and soft.

“And it is not yet revealed what we will be,” he whispers.

 

Dean kisses him, kisses him and kisses him.

 

“I—I love you,” he chokes out. “I love you.”

Cas smiles sadly.

“I know.”

 

x

 

The room is melting around them, sinking into blue, to sapphire, to cerulean.

Cas pulls him close, breathing words of love and comfort and softness against Dean’s neck, but it doesn’t soothe him. He’s panicking, knowing that he can’t close his eyes, scared that if he does—even for a second—Cas will disappear.

 

Dean’s not going to let them take him away. Not this time.

 

 

Cas is warm, humming something in Dean’s ear—something he can’t quite make out.

The hum gets louder and louder, and Dean feels tendrils of cold creeping into his soul, ripping their way into his heart, and he fights it, screams and yells—

He tries to focus on Cas’s voice, but—

 

Cold. So cold.

 

 

Dean wrenches his eyes open.

Cas is gone.

 

 

He falls, panicking.

“Cas—“

His hands hit something soft, but he doesn’t register it, screaming into the sky.

“No, no, _Cas_ —“

 

 

It beats down on him, a black void.

 

“ _CASTIEL!_ ” Dean yells.

“Calm down, honey.”

 

 

 

Dean whirls. Standing before him is an old woman, small and fragile against the choking blackness.

He’s never seen her before in his life.

 

She sniffs, shuffling through the snow towards him. Her face is slightly green, lit up with the sickly glow from the windows of what Dean realizes is a Laundromat, its dim hum buzzing all around them.

 

She reaches the door and curls a gnarled hand around the handle, turning to him expectantly.

 

 

“Well?”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Dean doesn’t move.

 

 

“We just gonna stare at each other for all eternity?” She asks wryly, raising an eyebrow.

He glares at her.

“Who the hell are you?”

But she just smiles, pulling open the door.

“We’ll get to that.”

 

Dean snarls. Screw this.

He turns on his heel, opening his mouth—

“He won’t answer.”

 

Dean snaps his head over, staring at her.

She sighs, nodding towards the door again.

“Come on,” she says, a hint of impatience in her voice. “It’s cold, and I don’t got all day.”

Dean vaguely realizes his clothes are back on his body, but still, he’s shivering, his skin fighting against the chilled air.

 

 

“Why is it cold?” He shoots at her.

 

She plants her hands on her hips, giving him the stare right back.

“You wanna bash my Heaven, or you wanna learn something?”

 

Dean narrows his eyes. After a moment of silent debate, he straightens, and walks stiffly through the door. She quietly follows.

 

 

x

 

**“There are no random acts. We are all connected. You can no more separate one life from another than you can separate a breeze from the wind.”**

 

x

 

She awkwardly pushes past him, stopping in front of the line of machines. She takes out a small pocketbook and digs through it, her brow furrowed.

Dean watches impatiently.

She finally surfaces with a coin and drops it in one of the washers, tapping her fingers against the white metal. It coughs, once, twice—then kicks up, its raucous buzz adding to the noise around them. She smiles, then starts to pull clothes from the dryer behind her.

Dean stands rigid by her side, everything in him on edge. He’s fairly certain he’s never seen this woman before, but there’s something nipping at the back of his mind, telling him that he has to just let this play out.

But she sure is taking her sweet time, practically ignoring Dean as she continues to pull clothes out, folding them and setting them carefully in a basket on the table beside her.

Dean squints at her, fighting with his memory. Her face is lined, her clothes a little shabby, but she moves with a sort of faded grace, the hint of a former elegance.

 

“Here.”

 

He’s snapped out of it when she tosses him something.

He barely catches it in time, looking down at the wrinkled jacket.

“You’ll catch your death,” she says, her lips curling slightly. Dean grimaces.

“Very funny.”

She just smiles, giving him a wink.

 

He glares at the still-warm jacket for a moment, then shrugs it on. Hell, he might as well. He slips it over his head, and it floats and settles around him, like he had just sunk into a hot bath.

But it doesn’t do shit.

Dean’s prickly, nervous—routinely scanning the room around them. It’s not empty. There are others moving quietly about the Laundromat, not speaking to each other. The fans whir dully above their heads, fluorescent lights flickering feebly. It looks like every crappy place he and Sam have ever washed a pair of jeans, another shirt ruined by a hunt, furtively shoving a bloodstained coat into a washer before anyone could ask any questions.

He fixes back on the woman, staring hard. She tucks a silver strand of hair behind her ear, patiently separating her tangled socks.

“You’re my fifth person?”

She nods. She doesn’t look at him.

“Who are you?”

She closes the dryer and moves on to the next.

“My name is Leah.”

 

Dean thinks, trying to force his ever-crappy brain to sift back through years of memories. But he comes up empty.

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know you.”

She shakes out the shirt in her hands, folding it calmly.

“Oh, you do.”

He narrows his eyes.

“Don’t think so, lady.”

She sighs, finally abandoning her clothes. She turns to face Dean, flecked green eyes finding his own. There’s a scar above her left eyebrow.

“Look closer,” she says softly.

 

 

 

Her face shifts, a slight haze passing over it, as if Dean was looking at her through a pane of dappled glass, and suddenly…

Her face is young, with black hair instead of gray, glaringly familiar—

Then it’s gone, and she is old once again, her expression expectant.

 

“You were that girl,” Dean says haltingly. “In…in Toledo. We pulled you from that burning building…”

She dips her head.

“The very same.”

 

Dean doesn’t understand. Why her? Why now?

 

 

“Told you it was a poltergeist,” he says weakly.

She shrugs.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t remember you,” Dean mutters.

But she just laughs, picking up her basket of clothes.

“You save a lot of people. Hard to remember individual faces.”

 

Another woman, younger, starts to move towards them, and Dean steps back to let her pass. He watches her walk to the coin machine, her shimmering red hair catching the dim light. He turns back to Leah.

 

“I, uh…I gotta ask.”

 

He gestures, looking around.

“What’s with the—”

“The Laundromat?”

She chuckles, leaning back.

“Seems ordinary, I know.”

Then she sobers, and glances over her shoulder.

“But it’s where I met the love of my life,” she says softly.

 

Dean follows her gaze, and sees a man folding his own clothes, someone who can’t be more than thirty. And as if he feels their eyes on him, he looks up.

He blushes and smiles shyly, quickly going back to his task.

Leah watches him for a moment, something in her gaze strained and longing. Dean bites his lip. He knows that look all too well.

 

Then she shakes herself, placing a soft hand on his arm.

“Let’s go,” she murmurs.

 

 

 

 

She points, and he turns, but there’s no neon-lit Laundromat. They’re suddenly in a beautiful temple, grand and old, the air humming with hushed devotion.

 

“And this is where I met my best friend.”

Dean sees a pair of girls, who look to be about 10, giggling on a wooden bench in the front row.

He turns slowly, realization dawning.

“You’re reliving them,” he says. “All those moments…”

She smiles.

“Yes.”

 

They watch the girls, who seem oblivious to their presence, carrying on in a language Dean doesn’t recognize.

She sighs contentedly.

“I love meetings, don’t you?” Her lined face glows with a quiet happiness, shining from within. 

“So much potential,” she murmurs. “You have no idea what that person is going to become for you. How much they’ll mean to you.”

A flood of memories wash over him, streaking past Dean's eyes and swirling in the air—

 

_His mom, leading him over to a sun-kissed cradle…_

_“This is Bobby,” John says roughly. “He’ll be watchin’ you fer a few hours…”_

_A worn out barn, lights sparking around him…_

 

 

Then they're gone.

Dean glances up to see Leah watching him quietly. He looks away.

 

 

She straightens, beckoning a finger.

“Come.”

 

 

Dean follows her through a small side door, and freezes.

“Where I met my daughters,” she says softly.

Doctors and nurses rush past, and he digs his nails into his palms. He feels sick.

“And my son,” Leah adds, after a moment.

 

She glances over at him. Dean stands stiffly by her side, trying to breathe through his mouth.

He hates hospitals.

 

“Not me. This is where I spent most of my time,” Leah says, as if she heard his thoughts.

Dean shoots her a glance. She smiles slightly.

“You won’t find my name in a history book.”

She sits on one of the waiting room chairs, looking up expectantly at him. When Dean doesn’t move, she purses her lips, and pats the seat next to her.

Dean hesitates. But eventually he sits too, eyes still darting warily around the room.

No one is speaking. People rush past them, running to help or to hurt—but no one makes a sound.

 

Leah folds her hands carefully in her lap.

“The treatment that saved your brother—it was experimental at the time, you remember?”

 

Dean stiffens.

 

He remembers. Of course he remembers. That horrible fucking time that cemented his hate for places like this, and all because of a couple cells that wouldn’t do their damn job, sitting on Sam’s lungs, slowing killing him.

It was one of the worst things Dean had ever seen, and he had seen his brother die too many times already. Sam sitting in the chemo chair, his bald head covered with a beanie so he wouldn’t scare anyone, with his sunken face and his dead eyes.

A lifetime spent hunting, and this was what struck down Sam Winchester.

 

“I was the chief of medicine at the hospital,” Leah says softly. Dean slowly turns to look at her, but she continues.

“You never saw me. But I saw you. Through the window, as the doctor explained your case to me. And I still recognized you, even after all those years.”

She turns to him, her lips quirking up into a half-smile.

“Didn’t you ever wonder how it went through?”

 

 

 

Dean stares at her, his mind utterly blank.

 

Yes—god, he had wondered—the doctor had told him this treatment was Sam’s only chance, and it was nearly impossible to get clearance—then came back one day, saying they had been approved, and they could start tomorrow…

And by that time, no angel had been willing to go near him. His in-laws really were a bunch of dicks.

 

“You…” Dean says dazedly. He can’t manage anything else, not a question or an acknowledgment or a thank you.

But Leah doesn’t seem to mind. She dips her head, her voice soft.

 

“People touch our lives, sometimes only slightly, sometimes in the grandest way.”

Her words pass over him like a cool mist, prickling his skin.

“Whether we are aware of it or not,” she adds quietly.

 

x 

 

Dean looks down at his hands.

“Is…”

He bites his lip.

“Is Sam okay?” He asks, his voice small.

 

“Sam is fine.”

 

Leah clasps her hands, papery skin stark against the black of her skirt.

“He is mourning you,” she adds, after a moment.

 

Dean blinks, his eyes burning.

“Shit,” he mutters.

“He is strong,” Leah says quietly. “The illness changed him. Death is no longer something he is afraid of.”

Dean presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, taking a deep breath.

“He resigned himself to dying a long time ago,” she continues softly. “Even though you Winchesters do have a tendency to outstay your welcome.”

 

Dean snorts briefly, unable to help it. God, she's right. How many times had they died and been brought back again? 

Then he sobers, remembering this time it's for good. He's not going back.

And yet...Dean isn't sad. He realizes the idea of his brother alone on earth doesn’t make him want to go tearing off. There's no need to go back this time. Sam will be fine. Sam can take care of himself.

 

And Dean always knew…he couldn’t outrun death forever.

“Cas always said we should get punchcards,” he says carelessly.

 

“Castiel,” Leah repeats. “Yes.”

She quiets, her face suddenly thoughtful and sad.

“I am here to tell you about him, too.”

Dean freezes.

 

 

 

“What?”

 

 

 

 

 

_Today Is Dean’s Birthday_

 

 

His back cracks when he gets out of bed. He ignores the glasses placed strategically on his bedside table, squinting all the way to the bathroom. He stares at the mirror for a good five minutes, cataloguing every gray hair. His doctor recommended last week that he cut down on his hours at the garage. And start taking vitamins. Goddamn vitamins. Dean decides he hates his birthday.

And maybe that was the reason he snapped at Cas.

He handed Dean his coffee and kissed the top of his head as he read the paper that morning, wishing him a happy birthday. Dean only grunted in response and went to get dressed, feeling Cas’s eyes follow him down the hall.

 

 

Love is hard. Love is work. And for a man who never had the best track record with expressing his feelings, especially for an oblivious angel, it should have been impossible.

There were arguments, there were fights. Sometimes they would shout and rage and fuck because they didn’t know how to say _I love you_ any other way. They would scream, they would kiss each other angrily, they would sleep apart and they would refuse to let go.

But they always found their way back to each other.

Inevitably, one of them would crawl back into bed, wordlessly curling around the other, because, deep down, they knew they couldn’t bear to be apart, even if they pretended they could.

And in the years after, Dean had wanted to remember it as perfect.

Christ.

He never realized how much like his old man he really was.

 

 

 x

 

It had been so stupid.

 

Dean knew Cas was planning something for him, something with Sammy, maybe even some of their friends. Something with gifts, and  _hey, look who’s over the hill,_ and Dean having to pretend none of it bothered him. So he purposefully scheduled himself to work that night. And when Cas found out, there had been hell to pay. Dean shouted at Cas over the phone, and Cas had shouted back. Dean slammed the phone down and went back to the car he had been working on, yelling at the rest of the boys to stop lounging around and do their damn jobs. Especially Fisher, that fuckwad.

Dean knew Cas would be pissed at him for a while, but he’d apologize to Cas eventually, and they’d get over it. They always did. 

 

x

 

 

 

“No,” Dean whispers. “Don’t tell me. Please.” 

She shakes her head.

“I’m sorry.”

 

Around them, everything freezes—a stack of papers captured in mid-fall, people frozen in their stride. The woman speaks again.

“Take the same moment. Take a rainy Saturday morning, 9:07 am.”

The hospital fades briefly into that glaring white emptiness, only to be replaced by the streets of a familiar town.

Dean’s heart seizes.

 

 

 

Picture this:

 

A man starts from his home, harried and harassed. He had gotten a late start that morning, because he spent most of it fighting with his coffee maker. He usually didn't make any, but a coworker had missed a shift and the man had to cover for them, resulting in him barely getting two hours of sleep the night before.

The man abandons the machine and sets out on foot, headed to a local garage. On the way, fighting against drowsiness, he stops into a café and orders a drink. The girl making it is flustered, and ruins his order the first time around, partly because it's her first day—but mostly due to the fact that she missed training the day before, because she skipped out to see a reshowing of her favorite movie.

 

Across town, another man left his house after an argument over a birthday.

 

The first man, coffee finally in hand, takes small sips as he walks, quicker now to the garage where his car is stationed—a broken converter. But just before he goes inside, he stops to finish his coffee and smoke a cigarette, next to a sign that says no smoking. No one stops him.

 

Meanwhile, the other man walks down a lonely side street, hands in his pockets, tan coat flapping in the wind. He is thinking. He feels regret for shouting at him. It’s his birthday, and he should be able to do what he wants. He’ll apologize, and make it up to him somehow.

 

The man finishes his cigarette and steps inside, exchanging quick words with a man whose nametag says Fisher. His car is ready, and he drives it off the lot with a smile on his face.

 

Nearby, a woman is walking too, a few battered library books in her arms. She had woken up a few minutes early and decided to drop them off before work. The books are heavy and she fights to keep her grip, not paying attention to the sidewalk. 

There's a slight dripping of rain from the sky, and the man with the coat turns up the collar, looking down to shield his eyes from the scattered drops. When they accidentally collide, the books go tumbling, and the man in the coat apologizes, kneeling to help her pick them up.

All the while, the other man was driving.

 

The man smiles and sees the woman off, then continues his pace. There's a stoplight up ahead—if he hurries he can make it.

 

The man in the car hears a sharp ringing—his phone in the backseat, where he had left it in a moment of tired forgetfulness. He digs for it, frowning.

 

 

He only took his eyes off the road for two seconds.

 

 

 

“If that coffee machine hadn’t broken, if that woman had slept through her alarm…maybe even if it hadn’t been raining.”

 

 

Dean feels his knees hit the ground. He can’t breathe.

 

“The car would have driven on by,” Leah murmurs. “And Castiel would still be alive.”

 

 

 

Dean stares blankly at the ground. The memory has faded away, and they’re back in front of the dark Laundromat, soft flakes gently falling all around them.

“A thousand random acts,” she says softly. “All pushing us silently on towards the future.”

“He was coming to apologize,” Dean mumbles. He feels an ice in his heart that has nothing to do with the cold bite of snow beneath his hands. 

“Now you know,” Leah whispers.

“He didn’t tell me.”

 

All that time—holding each other in the beauty of Castiel’s heaven, and he never said a word. 

“It was me,” Dean gasps. “It’s—“

 

God, Cas— _Cas—_

"It’s my fault," he chokes out.  

“No.”

Leah kneels next to him, taking his hands.

“Honey, no. I’m trying to tell you that it’s not.”

She stares up at him, something in her begging him to understand.

“It’s not your fault. It’s not any one person’s fault. It’s impossible for it to be.”

Dean is numb. She squeezes his hands, her skin soft against his rough calluses. He looks down at her wrinkled hands and suddenly—stupidly—wants to know why she would choose old age in her heaven.

Something he never got to see.

 

“But what you don’t know…

A shadow passes over Leah's face. 

“Is that the man driving that car was my son.”

 

Dean snaps his head up. Her eyes are sad.

“I touched your life more deeply than I ever thought possible, and I never saw you again,” Leah says softly.

She clasps her hands over his, helping him stand.

“So, if you must blame someone, blame me,” she says simply. “For bringing him into the world.”

Dean immediately shakes his head.

“No, you couldn’t—you couldn’t have known—“

“And neither could you.”

 

She spreads her arms, and suddenly Dean sees it—laid out before them—endless faces, lovers and enemies, family and complete strangers.

“Don’t you see?”

 

Leah's face is almost radiant, lit up with the glow of the life around them.

 

“There are thousands upon millions of choices, tipping points—threads of chance and destiny, of luck.”

She turns to him.

“You cannot be held responsible for events beyond your control.”

 

Dean can’t look away. Green eyes, so like his own—but wizened in a way he will never understand.

“No.”

Leah's voice is crisp, answering his doubts again as if he had uttered them out loud.

“Please. I _want_ you to understand.”

She seems to shift again, back to that lovely round face, framed by thick curls of shining black hair.

“You are not to blame for Castiel’s death,” she says softly. “It was always—“

“Don’t you dare say ‘meant to be,’” Dean growls.

Leah laughs quietly, sadly.

“No. But it couldn’t have worked any other way.”

 

x

 

Her hand finds his cheek, and Dean closes his eyes, something in him collapsing and falling away.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispers.

 

 

Dean takes a deep breath. 

He has no more arguments, no more excuses.

He’s weightless.

 

 

 

Dean nods.

 

“I know.”

 

 

 

 

x

Snow lands on his skin, but it does not melt. It sparkles around them like diamonds, pure and clean.

 

“How’d you die?” He asks softly.

Leah shrugs.

“Heart attack.”

Dean exhales.

“Sorry.”

She smiles, as if to say, _it happens._

 

They find a wooden bench, and sit together, watching the snow fall from the sky.

He refuses to let go of her hand.

 

“I just…”

Leah tilts her head, looking at him curiously. Dean sighs.

“Just always thought I’d go out, all guns blazing,” he finally says, looking down at his feet. “Hell, we lived through the friggin’ apocalypse, and I…”

He trails off, trying to figure out how to say it.

“Guess I’d always thought I’d die in some big grand gesture, trying to save the world,” he mumbles.

 

 

“So you think your death means less?”

 

Dean frowns.

“No, I just—“

“You were as important in life as you were in death, Dean Winchester,” Leah murmurs.

It’s the first time she’s said his name.

 

“You died doing what you have always done,” she says simply. “Saving people.”

His heart leaps.

“So, that girl—“

Dean sits up, suddenly nervous.

“I saved her then? Is she okay?”

Leah bows her head.

“I don’t know.”

 

Dean looks down, the small flare of hope quickly smothered.

“Oh.”

 

 

 

He digs a heel against the ground, the one sour taste in his new lightened soul. He just wants to know. He needs to know.

 

“You’ve lived a hell of a life.”

 

He glances up. Leah is standing before him, framed against a sweet lime sun.

“For as many as you’ve saved, you’ve also loved, you’ve lost.”

She gestures, around them, to herself, to him.

“But this is Heaven,” she says, smiling. “It wants to reunite you with them. Now is your time to be selfish, Dean.”

She asks her last question.

 

 

 

 

“What do you want?”

 

 

 

 

Dean closes his eyes.

 

 

_Sam. I want to see Sam._

 

 

 

_I want to see Mom._

He inhales.

_And Cas. God, I want to see Cas._

 

_I just want to know they’re alright, that they’re okay, and I—_

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” he whispers.

 

 

 

Dean opens his eyes. Leah is smiling.

“And you don’t have to.”

 

 

 

She moves quietly to his side, but Dean is staring at awe at the sky. There’s a sudden soft light all around him, green and pure.

 

Leah looks up too. 

“My,” she says. “Look at the time.”

 

Dean turns, startled.

“Where are you going?”

 

He realizes he’s not ready to let her go. He doesn’t know what comes after.

She smiles.

“This is not my place anymore. It’s yours.”

 

x

 

 

“Goodbye, Dean,” Leah says softly. “Remember what I have said. What all of us have said.”

She starts to walk away, down a cobbled path that blooms under her feet, a path Dean knows well.

Then she stops, gesturing to something behind him.

“Go on. I think someone wants to see you.”

 

She fades away.

 

 

 

Dean turns. The world is settling slowly around him, bright planes and faces getting sharper every minute—

And then he sees them.

His childhood home, his mom smiling out at him. That empty field where fireworks light up the bright night, his kid brother running around beneath them, and even his father, the day he let Dean fix up the Impala for the first time.

 

Endless memories and people, layered and beautiful and perfect, waiting for him, to welcome him home.

 

 

 

x

 

 

 

Dean walks slowly through his Heaven, taking it all in.

 

The sky blurs and melts in front of him, and he stops abruptly.

 

 

 

It’s a park. The same park where he once sat on a bench and had a conversation with an angel.

But there’s someone already sitting there.

 

 

He stares for a minute, but the man doesn’t move. He’s sitting completely still on the bench, his spine unnaturally stiff.

Dean cautiously walks forward, then lowers himself down on the bench next to him. 

He doesn’t greet Dean, or make any sort of welcome. Instead he pulls out a white paper bag, unceremoniously dumping it into Dean’s lap.

“Sweet potato fries,” he says crisply, his pale hand disappearing again beneath his black cloak. “The one good thing about this place is the food, I’ll give it that.”

Dean blinks down at the bag.

“Uh.”

 

He clears his throat.

“Thanks.”

The man gives him a curt nod.

Dean carefully opens the bag. He hesitates, then pulls out a fry and pops it in his mouth.

He raises an eyebrow.

They are good.

 

 

He chews slowly.

“Did you—“

“Yes. I did.”

 

Dean looks down.

“Thanks,” he says again.

The man’s lip curls.

“I hope this one sticks,” he sniffs. “You die far too much, I was starting to get sick of it.”

Despite himself, Dean snorts.

“Have to agree with you there.”

 

He pulls at a cracked splinter of wood in the bench, thinking.

“Didn’t even feel it,” he says softly.

The man props up his cane, watching Dean’s heaven through shrewd eyes.

“Hmmph.”

 

Dean hesitates.

“Do you…”

 

He glances up.

“Do you know if I saved the girl?” He asks tentatively. “Hell, if anyone can tell me, it’s you.”

He merely looks at him.

Dean crumples the bag in his hands.

“I just need to know,” he murmurs. “There was a girl, when I died, and I thought I shoved her out of the way, but I felt hands—“

“Those weren’t her hands,” Death says.

 

 

 

 

“Oh,” Dean says eventually.

 

A noncommittal grunt is all he gets in response.

 

 

Dean glances down at his lap, twisting his fingers.

“Well, hey, um—“

Death turns a cold black eye on him. Dean swallows.

“Thank you.”

Death looks at him for a moment, then slightly inclines his head. He purses his lips and quickly goes back to staring at the park, but Dean swears he sees the hint of a smile.

 

x

 

They sit in silence, watching the children run, shouting and laughing.

 

 

Dean holds the bag out.

“You wanna help me finish these?”

Death stands suddenly.

“Far too busy.”

 

He starts readjusting his clothes, making a show of getting ready to leave.

“Don’t expect me visiting to become a habit,” he says dryly.

Death strides briskly away from him over the path, his cane ticking on the uneven cobblestones.

But then he pauses and turns, giving Dean a brief nod.

Then with a swish of his coat, he’s gone.

 

 

 

x

 

The building is repaired. Structural damage, officials would later say. Only a matter of time before something like this happened. Those injured are paid for their silence and sent on their way.

Sam leaves Stull Cemetery, something in him dazed, the shock that always comes from loss. But he doesn’t seek out a crossroads. He doesn’t summon help from Heaven or Hell, and for once, he doesn’t entertain any grand notions of cheating death. He always knew that the Winchesters’ number would be up one day. He just hadn’t anticipated it happening so soon.

He slides into the car, his now, finally, undeniably his, and strangely, he is not afraid. He starts up the engine and pulls onto the old dusty road, almost wanting to smile.

 _It’s cliché_ , he thinks, _but Dean’s in a better place._

 

 

He buried his brother next to Cas. The plot on the other side is empty. Waiting.

 

Sam makes a few calls, and later that year, a red pickup pulls up to the bunker’s entrance. He drops the keys in Krissy’s hand and gives her a hug. It’s the last time they will ever see each other. In this life, anyway.

That night, he returns to his empty apartment. His hand lingers on the light switch. His life has been nothing but his family for so long, it’s strange to imagine a world without it.

 

And for the first time in a long time, Sam kneels at his bedside, clasping his hands.

And he prays.

x

 

 

A little girl sticks close to her mother for weeks after the incident that almost claimed her life. Her dreams are plagued by the man who died saving her, and her guilt sits in her heart, hard and horrible. Her brother and father try to reassure her, telling her stories about God and Heaven, the stories she’s heard since birth, but she remains unconvinced.

Only when her mother takes her aside one afternoon, asking her to keep a secret, does something change.

She sits her down and takes her hands, and tells her daughter that there’s nothing to fear, because she knows there really _is_ a Heaven.

 

She knows, because back when her last name was still Novak, her daddy had been a real live angel.

 

 

x

 

 

And Dean is happy.

Mary holds his hands, and she tells him that she is so proud, so so proud of the man her son turned out to be.

Bobby’s got a few choice words, cuffing him around the ears a bit. He pulls Dean into his arms, and though he gruffly denies it, when they finally break apart, there are tears in his eyes.

It’s an eternity and just a heartbeat, seeing them all—the faces and friends, those he’s loved and lost. And Dean knows one day, he’ll stand here too. Waiting. For a brother, for a past lover, for a little sister he said he never wanted but always did—or perhaps for a girl, a little girl who once had a brush with death. And he’ll sit them down and explain the part he had in their life, and teach them why it all mattered.

 

But all that can wait.

Because right now, there’s someone he wants to see.

 

 

 

 

The path is solid and crooked before him.

 

Dean walks slowly, following its curving pattern up to the front door. The wood is weathered and cracked, the paint peeling in some places.

He dips his hand in his pocket and curls his fingers around the keys to the house, his house, _their_ house—but he raises his hand anyway, trembling a little.

He knocks.

And he waits.

 

 

 

Then there’s soft footsteps, a gentle creak as the door opens.

Dean sighs, a flood of warmth and love and home washing through him.

 

 

 

“Hey, Cas,” he murmurs.

 

 

Cas smiles.

“Hello, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your wonderful comments. I read each and every single one and I am overwhelmed by the response. I truly loved writing this story and I'm so glad you love it too! (Sorry for the tears.)  
> <3
> 
>  
> 
> You can find me at chevrolangels.tumblr.com :)


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